Sweet!
by MegaTurtle2011
Summary: <html><head></head>Post-anime: Now that Van is back in Evergreen, he and Wendy begin to examine the nature of their friendship and consider future plans. But trouble shows up in the form of a businessman who has his own ideas about the town's future. Pairing: Van X Wendy</html>
1. Chapter 1

Part One: Van

The sun was setting over Evergreen, casting waves of purple across the cloudless sky. The man in the tuxedo idly watched the sky from the front steps, pausing now and then to take another sip of milk. Occasionally he looked back through the screen door into the little house behind him. Finally, he called out "What's taking you so long?"

"I'm just slicing the pie!" an exasperated voice snapped back. "You do want to try it, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess," Van said doubtfully.

"I think you'll like it," the girl called back. "I added extra spice." He just grunted and took another sip of milk. He turned back to watch the horizon again, but the sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving only a purple- red glow. Up above, a star twinkled. He eyed it thoughtfully.

"If you don't hurry up," he warned, "It'll be too dark to sit outside any longer."

"I LIKE sitting in the dark," the girl inside retorted. "It's the best way to enjoy a summer evening, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah?" He had never really thought about how to enjoy a summer evening, but he wouldn't have thought that sitting in the dark was the best thing to do.

"Here you are," the voice said. He looked up to see a young woman with red hair, green eyes, and a ready smile. The corners of his own mouth curled up slightly in response as she settled down on the steps beside him. He took the dessert plate she offered him, and reluctantly pulled his eyes away from Wendy's face.

"What is this?" he asked.

"I told you, didn't I? It's a strawberry apple pie, but I made it with extra spice just for you." She laughed. "It's probably too strong to serve in the restaurant, but if this one is good, I can always tone down the recipe a little."

"So, is it good?"

"I haven't tried it yet. I wanted you to have the first slice!"

"Ah," he grunted. He picked up his fork and dutifully took a bite. He was already planning on asking for honey to drizzle across the dessert, but that first bite changed his mind. "Sweet!" he yelled appreciatively. Wendy winced.

"Not so loud! People will hear!" she hissed.

"Let 'em hear," he said ruthlessly. "This is _good_." She smiled again, and her whole face lit up. He paused with his fork in mid-air, momentarily arrested by the sight. He had been back in Evergreen for more than a month now, and he still couldn't get enough of Wendy's smile. He had missed it so much all the years that they'd been apart. He had always hoped to see her again, but he had never realized how good it would be simply to have her by his side, close enough to touch.

He had not yet touched her, much as he wanted to. Since the moment when he came crashing through her door looking for a meal, he had wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless, but he hadn't dared to do it. There was too much at stake for him to risk it yet. He had a pretty good idea of how she felt about him, but they had never yet talked about where their friendship was headed, and he did not want to act on an assumption. Besides, he did not want to rush her into anything. Much as she had matured in the years they'd been apart, Wendy was still in many ways a very young woman, ready to blush at the slightest crudeness . . . or at an accidental bump in a crowded hallway, which told him that she was as aware of his body as he was of hers.

"So, what did the sheriff want?" Wendy's question drew his wandering mind back—probably for the best, given what he'd been thinking about.

He'd forgotten that he hadn't even told her the news yet. "He offered me a job," he explained. Her eyes widened.

"A job? Doing what?"

"Dunno," he said with a shrug. "Kicking ass, probably." He took another bite of the pie. Damn, it really was good. How did she manage to keep surprising him?

"Van!" Wendy narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her forehead in one of her potent glares. "What did he really say?"

"He wants me to sign on as some kind of special deputy ," he explained. "I wouldn't have to work all the time. I'd just be called in when there was a problem too big for them to handle." That meant a problem that required the use of armor, most likely. Evergreen was fairly prosperous these days, but the sheriff's department still couldn't afford expensive weapons.

"What did you tell him?"

He shrugged. "I told him I'd have to think about it."

"Well . . ." Wendy began, but her voice trailed off.

"Well what?"

"Well, what are you thinking?"

"Huh." He took another bite of pie and thought about the question. "You think I should take it?" he asked her, slanting a glance in her direction. She bowed her head so that he couldn't see her eyes.

"I think it's your decision."

"You don't care what I do?"

"Of course I care!" she retorted quickly, "but I don't have the right to tell you what to do!"

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "You tell me what to do all the time." She turned her head to face him, her eyes flashing.

"I do NOT!" she snapped. "I mean . . . not all the time. Only when you're doing the wrong thing. Or not doing the right thing. Or . . ."

"Seems like all the time to me," he muttered.

"Look, I'm sorry . . ."

"'S all right," he assured her. "It's not like I really listen, anyway."

"_Van_!" The glare came back in full force. Time to think of a distraction, he decided.

"Here," he said, scooping up a piece of the pie with his fork. "Take a taste of this." She took the fork from his hand and took a bite. Her eyes widened.

"Wow, that's spicy," she commented. "Maybe I overdid it with the cinnamon."

"No, I like it that way," he assured her. "And it's sweet enough as it is." She frowned thoughtfully, as if she weren't certain. He opened his mouth to ask if she thought there was something wrong with the recipe, then paused, realizing that there was a smudge of pie filling on the corner of her mouth. "Hey, you've got something here . . ." he tapped his own face to indicate.

"Got what?" she said, looking puzzled.

"There," he said, and reached out to wipe it away his thumb. She blushed at his touch, and he froze, realizing that he had just stepped over the boundary that he had been so careful to observe these past few weeks. Then he felt her smile, her lips curving up against his touch. And, to his shock, she turned her head just slightly to print a kiss on his hand, her lips brushing his thumb so lightly that he would have thought that he had imagined it, if not for the way her blush deepened.

His heart gave a lurch. She had kissed his hand. What did that mean? He put down the pie plate and tried to think, but thinking had never been his strong suit. So he did what he did best: he acted on impulse. He cupped Wendy's chin in one hand, leaned forward, and gave Wendy her first kiss. It was just the merest brush of his lips against hers, lasting only a second, but it set his heart pounding so frantically that he was sure that she would be able to hear it. So he leaned away from her, lounging against the door frame as casually as if the kiss had never happened.

But when he spoke, his voice betrayed his emotion. "So," he asked gruffly, "was that sweet enough for you?"


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: Wendy

"Hey, Wendy, look alive! We've got the mayor here with an important guest." Wendy snapped her head up and swiveled around to see the head waiter, who had stepped inside the kitchen of the Café Evergreen.

"An important guest?" Wendy repeated, with a frown.

"Some developer from another town," he explained. "Some guy who wants to build a casino here in Evergreen." Several heads in the kitchen snapped up at that.

"A casino?" asked Thomas, who was stirring a pot of soup. "Here in Evergreen? The town council will never allow it."

"Right," agreed Martine. She was sautéing vegetables over an open flame on the other side of the kitchen. "You can't market the town as a family-friendly vacation destination if there's a casino attracting riff-raff."

"Not my problem, not my decision," Walter said. "All I know is that the mayor insisted that his guest be given nothing but the finest food we've got. He wants one of your special dishes, Wendy."

"All right, then," Wendy said. "Hot or cold, do you think?"

"They didn't say." She pushed aside the fruit she'd been chopping, covering it with a dish towel. There'd be time to bake for the supper crowd later. Now she'd have to think about lunch. On a summer day in the desert, most people wanted cold dishes. "I have a cayenne-peppered chicken in cold storage," she mused, "I could try a new kind of chicken salad."

"Whatever you want! Just making it good, and make it quick, so they don't get impatient!"

"Okay, okay," she muttered cheerfully. "It'll be ready in a few minutes." She set her assistant to chopping onions and celery, and set to stripping the chicken herself as she thought about what else to do. This would be a spicy salad, naturally, but she wanted to add a touch of sweetness, too. There weren't any fresh grapes on hand, though. What else could she add? The only cranberries they had were frozen. That wouldn't do for a special guest. A developer from out of town might be someone wealthy, someone who was used to better food than you could get in a small-town restaurant, even one as well-known as the Café Evergreen. "Raspberries," she muttered to herself at last. She had never tried raspberry in a chicken salad, but raspberries went well with peppery food.

"What's that?" her assistant asked anxiously, shaking her bangs away from her blue eyes. She was a high school student working a summer job, much as Wendy had been doing just a couple of years ago. Judging from the stressed look she'd been wearing lately, she was finding the job tougher than she had expected.

"We have some fresh raspberries in the pantry, don't we? Bring me about a cup of them."

"Right!" She came dashing back a moment later, out of breath.

"You don't have to rush that much," Wendy said with a reassuring smile. "You're doing fine, Sarah Jane."

"Really?"

"Really," Wendy assured her. "Why don't you sit down for a moment and take a break?"

"But—"

"The lunch rush is over, isn't it? If you don't learn to pace yourself, you'll burn out."

"Okay." The girl pulled a stool out from under the vast island in the center of the kitchen and sank down gratefully. "Are you really going to add raspberries to chicken salad?"

"Yes. It'll give a touch of sweetness to contrast with the cayenne and paprika," Wendy explained. She added a dash of chipotle as she stirred the mixture, so that there would be another level of flavor. Then she grabbed a clean spoon and took a quick taste. She nodded briskly: it was just right. Not too spicy, not too sweet. She arranged a bed of lettuce on each place, then added the chicken salad. What else? She wondered. It needed something more; that was certain. So she stepped over to the pastry rack. As she had thought, there were still a few cinnamon rolls left over from breakfast. They'd been well-wrapped, so they shouldn't be stale. The cinnamon rolls here were enormous, so she took just one, sliced it in two, and place on half on each plate.

Walter popped into the kitchen just as she finished arranging a garnish on the last of the two plates. He opened his mouth, and she forestalled his complaint by thrusting the plates at him. "Here's the meal for the mayor and his guest."

"What do I say it is, if they ask?"

"Tell them it's . . ." she paused, trying to think of something catchy to call the meal.

"Call it the Peppered Poultry Salad!" Martine called out from where she was slicing a sandwich.

"All your titles are too alliterative," Wendy complained, "but I can't think of anything better. Walter," she said, turning back to the waiter, "if you want to call it something other than the Chef's Special, you can tell them that it's Wendy's Peppered Poultry Salad."

"I guess that'll do." He elbowed the swinging door open and swept out the door, looking as cool as lemon sorbet. Wendy went back to work to preparing pies for the dinner crowd. She rarely worked the dinner shift, but she generally baked the desserts of the day before she went home. It was one of her favorite tasks.

After the pies were in the oven, she began working on cookies. The Café Evergreen provided room service to the Hotel Evergreen, and that included snacks: cookies, brownies, and teacakes. Wendy rarely had anything to do with the hotel, but she generally filled her spare minutes with baking, and a pan or two of simple drop cookies would not take long, especially since another of the ovens was free at the moment. If she could get a dozen cookies done, it would spare the next shift's baker at least a little headache. It was hard to balance the needs of the supper crowd with the need to be prepared with after-dinner room service orders from the hotel.

She didn't get far in her task, though, before Walter reappeared. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"On the contrary," Walter said, with a little bit more pomposity than the occasion called for, "something is right! Mr. Darlington was so pleased with the chicken salad you served that he wants to meet you personally."

"Really?" Wendy said, rather startled. She'd had customers thank her personally for her cooking before, but not for something as simple as a chicken salad.

"Yes, and I'm sure the mayor would appreciate it if you hurried, since they're on a tight schedule today." Walter's voice dropped to a confidential whisper, which still carried farther than he likely intended. "They're visiting town council members to try to sell this casino idea, you know."

"So that's true," Wendy murmured. She was disappointed in the new mayor. Their old mayor would never have proposed such a plan.

"Yes, but it's none of our business!" Walter reminded her. "Your business is to go play nice for the Café Evergreen."

"Yeah, yeah," she said. She stripped off her apron and wiped some of the flour off her hands. She hoped the rest would be excused.

The mayor always took the booth in the bow window that overlooked the mall. The Café was on the second floor, so anyone in that window had a good view of the entire lower level. On a weekday afternoon, the mall was full of mothers with young children, some of whom were splashing in the central fountain. There was a sign next to the fountain that said "No playing in the water," but someone had crossed out the word "no," and no one had ever bothered to correct it.

The major and his important guest were looking out the window and laughing at something, but they both turned around quickly at Walter's soft "Umm-hmph." Walter bowed as he made the introductions: "Mr. Mayor, Mr. Darlington: here is today's chef, Miss Wendy Garret." Wendy bowed slightly as both men stood up.

"A wonderful meal as always, Miss Garret," the mayor said jovially. "Mr. Darlington here wanted to thank you personally." And to her surprise, the mayor slipped away from the table, murmuring some excuse. Walter had performed one of his subtle waiter vanishings, leaving Wendy alone with the real estate developer. He was a man of medium height whose brown hair had begun to silver at the temples. He wore a white suit, a straw hat, and boots that suggested that he wanted to be thought of as a cowboy, though he was every inch the businessman. Some women would have found him attractive, but Wendy thought he smiled too much.

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Garret," the man said. To Wendy's ears, his booming voice came out sounding entirely too jovial. "I wasn't expecting a meal this good in a town as small as Evergreen."

"Most of the town's economy is based on tourism, sir," Wendy reminded him. "People come here for the cold springs, and they expect good food. The Café Evergreen has to please the tastes of those who are from much more sophisticated cities. I'm just glad to know that I was able to uphold the standards of the restaurant." She took a step back, intending to turn around, but he stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

"You are quite right about that," he told her. "That's why, when we've built our casino here, we'll need the best cooking staff available in our restaurant. Tell me, Miss Garret, are you interested in working for us in, say, a year or two?" He smiled again, showing an awful lot of tooth.

"It's kind of you to offer, but I'm quite happy with my job here."

"What if I offered to double your current salary?" Wendy's eyes widened.

She chuckled nervously, deciding to pass the offer off as a joke. "I'd say that you were overestimating my cooking ability," she told him. "I've only been working as a cook for a few years, you know."

"I admit that I didn't expect to find the chef to be so . . . young." He glanced over her, moving his eyes from her head to her feet in a way that Wendy found insolent, though the smile on his face suggested that it was meant to be flattering. "You look fresh out of the school room. How on earth did you learn to cook so well?"

"I've been working in this restaurant since I was fourteen," Wendy told him, "first as a waitress, then as a cooking assistant, and then as one of the chief cooks." She was used to people asking her why she had begun working at such a young age, so she forestalled the question, explaining: "My parents are gone, you see, so I had to support myself."

"It sounds as if you've lead a fascinating life," he said. (Really? Wendy thought. He didn't even know the interesting parts. What would he say if he knew that she had once helped save the world?) "I'd like to hear more about it. I'm going to be in Evergreen for at least a few weeks, and I'd love to have some . . . company." The way his voice slid suggestively over the word "company" turned Wendy's mild dislike into gut-felt revulsion. She gulped.

Two tables over, someone dropped a set of silverware. Wendy glanced up, startled, and met the eyes of her friend, Karen, who was bussing a table. Karen glanced at Mr. Darlington and lifted an eyebrow, then mouthed something that looked like it included the world "help?" Back when they were both waitresses, Karen had helped Wendy out of many a sticky situation involving unwanted attention from customers who'd had a little too much to drink. Just knowing that she was at hand gave Wendy more confidence.

"I'm very sorry, sir," she said, forcing herself to smile politely, "but I'm seeing someone right now." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Karen snap to attention, looking startled. Right, Wendy remembered, she hadn't had a chance to talk to Karen about last night yet, so the fact that she was seeing someone would be news to Karen. It looked like she'd have some questions to answer later, but she couldn't think of any better way out of the situation.

"My loss, his gain," Mr. Darlington said with a tight smile. "But here, let me give you my card." He drew a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Wendy. She took it, not knowing how to refuse it. "If you ever decide that you're interested in someone who has more to offer, let me know."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wendy muttered, and she turned and walked away, not caring whether she was being rude to an important guest. As it was, she had to struggle to keep from running. She wasn't sure if his last statement was referring to his job offer or his proposition, but either way, she was completely uninterested. She would far rather keep working for Jean-Jacques, even if it really were only half the salary she might make at Darlington's restaurant. As for the suggestion that she might want his "company" . . . she shuddered at that. There was nothing he could offer her that she could want.

Besides, she thought with a more genuine smile, how could anyone offer her more than the hero who had saved the world?


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three: Karen and Wendy

Just as Wendy had suspected, Karen waylaid her on her way out the door. "I'm off work in just half an hour," the girl hissed. "Wait for me in the tea garden?" Wendy hesitated, then nodded. She hadn't had much time for her friends lately. It would be good to catch up.

The tea garden was in the new wing of the mall, which had been built after the Wild Bunch were defeated. Although the shop itself was inside the mall, most of the seating was in an enclosed garden outside. Outdoor eating areas were always a tricky matter in a location as hot and dry as the Branco valley, but the owners of the tea garden had done things right. The whole enclosure was screened in from insects. There were half-a-dozen fountains in the garden splashing cool water in the air, while fans created a breeze. Between the water, the breeze, and the shade of the desert oaks that had been preserved during construction, the tea garden was tolerably comfortable even in the hottest weather.

It was still early summer, so the heat wasn't as bad as it might have been, but the garden was still relatively deserted: it was most popular in the evening and the morning, when a natural breeze might supplement the work of the fans. Wendy ordered a glass of lemonade, found a shady table for two near one of the fountains, and nearly fell asleep as she waited for Karen.

"What, napping?" her friend said, and Wendy's eyes snapped open.

"Sorry," she said, rubbing at her tired eyes. "Long day."

"Long day, huh? Are you sure it's not long nights with your mysterious stranger leaving you exhausted?" Karen asked with a wicked grin.

"Karen!" Wendy hissed, her face scarlet, "It's not like that!"

"Then why did you tell Mr. Smarmy in there that you were seeing someone? I thought you and Mr Van-of-the-Dawn were just friends."

"Well, we_ were_ just friends," Wendy whispered, "but then. . ."

"But then?" Karen scooted her chair closer around the table and leaned in to hear. "Tell your dear aunt Karen _everything_ about it."

"Last night . . ." Wendy stammered, finding it hard to say it, even to her best friend, "Last night he kissed me."

"About TIME," Karen said, sounding both pleased and smug.

"Karen!"

"Well, he's been hanging around your place like a stray dog for, what, a month? More? And he hadn't made a move? I was wondering what was wrong with the man."

"There's nothing wrong him," Wendy snapped. "He's just . . . he's . . .well, he's just _Van_." He was hard to describe to anyone else, perhaps, but perfectly understandable if you knew him. He was, as Carmen had once said, a simple man. He was just a strange man, too. "And anyway, I didn't have any reason to think that he was interested in me that way, not really."

"Oh, really? What about the way he looked at you?"

"Lots of men look at me like that."

"Yeah, because they think you're cute. Your Van is no different." Karen took a sip of her iced coffee and smirked. "Come on, Wendy. Anyone could tell that he was smitten with you."

"I couldn't tell," Wendy insisted. Then, to be honest, she added: "Not for sure. I mean, yeah, I catch him looking at me sometimes. . . he never looked at me like that when I was younger. And if we happen to touch accidentally . . . like, if our hands reach for the saltshaker at the same time . . . he always seems startled."

Karen snorted. "I swear, you two sound like a couple of middle school students. Touching hands, blushing, exchanging glances . . . I can't decide if it's cute or incredibly childish." Wendy narrowed her eyes and glared at her friend. "Sorry, sorry. So, is he at least a good kisser?"

"I don't really have anything to compare him to," Wendy said, still slightly irritated Karen's attitude of superiority. It was true, Karen had dated much more than she had, but that didn't give her the right to act like an expert on the subject. She was only two years older. "I've never kissed anyone else." Karen choked on her drink

"Wait, what about that guy you were traveling with all those years ago, what's his name—the blond kid?"

"Joshua? Oh no, we were just friends!" Wendy thought about that for a moment. She had certainly never felt anything but friendship towards Joshua Lundgren. In hindsight, there had been signs that he felt something more, but she had completely missed them back then. "I guess he did try to hold my hand a couple of times, but . . . no, I never kissed him."

"Well, then, what about that guy you went out with in high school? Robert what's his name?"

"Robert Barton?" Wendy blushed, remember him. "He wanted to kiss me, but I didn't want to kiss him. That was why we broke up." That was the short story. The longer story involved grabby hands and a frying pan wielded as a weapon, and it ended with Robert going to the hospital with a concussion. Wendy had never told Karen that story. She intended to take it to the grave with her.

"Hmm," Karen said. "But you let Van kiss you." She eyed Wendy over the edge of her glass, then bit her lip thoughtfully. "You really like this guy, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," Wendy whispered. It was so much of an understatement that it seemed almost dishonest to put it that way, but what else could she say? She could hardly admit to Karen how much she cared about Van, how much she had missed him all those years they were apart, how much she had longed to see him again, or how delighted she had been the day he came so casually strolling through her front door, looking for a meal. She didn't think that she could admit that to anyone.

"So . . . you did kiss him back, didn't you?"

"Uh . . . I don't know."

"You don't know? How can you not know something like that?"

"It all happened so fast! It was just a brief kiss!"

"But we are talking a kiss on the lips, right? Not the kind of peck on the cheek you might give your grandmother?"

"_Definitely_ not a grandmotherly kiss," Wendy said, remembering the touch of his hand on her cheek, the brush of his mouth against hers, and the heat that had gleamed in his red-brown eyes before he leaned away from her.

"Hmm. Well, what are you going to do now?"

"Do?"

"To make he knows that you're interested." Karen spoke slowly, as if she explaining matters to a rather dimwitted child. "If you didn't kiss him back, how is he supposed to know you like him?"

"I don't know," Wendy said. That had never occurred to her. Surely she had been obvious about it? Or had she?

"So what did you do after he kissed you?"

"I went into the kitchen to get a piece of pie." Karen sighed and dramatically buried her face in her hand. Wendy was not amused by her theatrics.

"So, in other words, it would have looked like you were trying to get away from him."

"Oh, no! It wasn't like that!" She had been flustered, it was true, and she had wanted a moment to collect herself. That was all. But would Van have realized that? she wondered.

"Well, then what?"

"Then what what?"

"What happened_ after_ that?"

"Nothing! He ate another piece of pie." Or maybe two. It was hard to keep track, with Van. He could pack away food pretty quickly when it was something he liked. "Then he said good night and walked off to wherever it is he camps out." The hotel would have glad put Van up for free, in thanks for his saving the town all those years ago, but he preferred to sleep under the open sky. At least, that's what he said. She had asked, once, where he slept, and he had mentioned something about an abandoned shack near the old lake, but she didn't really know for sure where he went or what he did when he wasn't with her.

"Did he give you a goodbye kiss?"

"No." Should he have? Wendy wondered. Didn't couples usually kiss goodbye? Yes, they did. She was sure they did. "Do you think I did something wrong?" she asked unhappily.

"I don't know," Karen said. "But I think you should make the next move, and I have the perfect idea."

"Yeah?" Wendy prompted, though she wasn't at all certain that she was going to like Karen's idea.

"You should invite him to the Freedom Day dance."

"The dance?" Wendy asked, startled. "But this is _Van_ we're talking about." She couldn't imagine him at a dance. To be more accurate, she couldn't imagine him dancing. She certainly could imagine him getting in a fight at a dance and trashing a ballroom. Van had a gift for finding battles wherever he went. "I really don't think that's a good idea," she said, thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

"No, it's perfect," Karen insisted. "He'll get to see you dressed up, and everyone in Evergreen will see that you're an item. He'll be crazy about you, and all the other men will know you're unavailable. You'll be killing two birds with one stone."

Wendy shook her head. "I guess I could suggest it, but I don't think he'll bite. Dancing isn't really his thing."

"Well, what is his thing?"

"Eating? Sleeping? Getting in fights?"

"Are you telling me that that's all you do together?"

"Well, we usually eat dinner together, and lots of times he falls asleep after dinner, and the rest of the time we talk, or just sit on the porch and watch the sunset."

"What do you talk about?"

"Sometimes we talk about things we did together in the past, and sometimes we talk about people we both know, but we mostly just argue about stupid things," Wendy admitted. "It's all nonsense."

"Arguing about nonsense? I suppose that's promising," Karen said. She had finished her drink, and was thoughtfully stirring the ice cubes in the bottom. "He really ought to take you out somewhere, though."

"I don't think he has much money," Wendy admitted. "I haven't asked, but he was always terrible with money, and I can't imagine that that's changed."

"I've got it!" Karen waved her spoon in the air triumphantly. "Take him out on a picnic."

"How will that help?"

"It'll be a change from just eating at the kitchen table, won't it? That'll make it clear that it's a date, not just dinner between friends. And then afterwards . . ." Karen's voice trailed off and she frowned.

"Afterwards, what?"

"Never you mind. I'll let you figure it out yourself," she said, sounding her most superior. That was all she would say on the subject. Instead, she changed the subject. "I almost forgot to ask: what did Mr. Smarmy want?"

"Mr. Darlington, you mean? He was mostly just offering me a job."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Wendy explained. "He said he wanted me to work in the kitchen of his casino when it's built."

"That'll never happen," Karen said.

"It's hard to imagine the town council voting in favor of it," Wendy agreed.

"I don't have to imagine," Karen said. "I know that my uncle, for one, would never support it, and there are two younger members who almost always vote the way he does."

"That's just three votes out of twelve," Wendy pointed out. "That's not a majority."

"Right, but Karen Whitlock would never vote for it, either, and I'm pretty sure that Tom Velasquez has been complaining about the idea, too. So that's five people against, and you can count on Sherry Crawford to oppose almost proposal that she didn't think of first, so that makes six."

"How do you know all this?" Wendy asked, impressed. She knew all of the town council members by face and reputation, but she didn't know most of this, and she admitted as much to her friend.

Karen shrugged. "I'm a waitress. I listen to all the gossip that you miss out on because you're stuck in the kitchen."

"Yeah, but still . . ." It was true that you could trust Karen to know all the gossip, but this was a surprising amount of detail.

"Sometimes I go over to my uncle's house and pump him for information after the town council meetings," Karen admitted.

"Well, that's an unfair advantage," Wendy said with a smile. Somewhere, a clock chimed. She pulled her watch out of the pocket of her skirt to check the time.

"Somewhere to be?" Karen asked.

"Something like that." Wendy tried to speak nonchalantly, but her blush gave her away. Van would be back any time now, and she didn't want to keep him waiting.

"I see how it is," Karen smirked. "If you want my advice . . ."

"Yeah?" Wendy asked, doubtfully.

"This time, _you_ kiss _him_."


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four – Hats and Hair Ribbons

Van stalked into Wendy's house on her next day off in a particularly foul mood that he did not bother to try to hide. He slammed the door, ignored Kameo's chirped hello (assuming that that's what the turtle was trying to say), and just grunted in response to Wendy's more articulate "Welcome home!"

Then, it slowly registered that she was treating her house as if it were his home, too, and his scowl diminished a fraction. "Hey there," he said. "When do we eat?"

"Everything's ready to go. Just let me finish tidying up the kitchen."

"Ready to go?" he repeated, confused.

"We're having a picnic today, remember?"

"We are?" he asked, slowly taking in the situation. So that's what the big covered basket was for, he realized. And no wonder that the table hadn't been set for dinner. And . . . was that why Wendy was wearing a strapless sundress? He blinked in surprise, taking in the sight of an unexpected amount of bare shoulder. As he watched, she picked up a light linen jacket that had been draped across a kitchen chair and pulled it on over her dress. He was just a little bit disappointed.

"Yes, I thought it would be nice to have dinner by Harper's pond," she said. "There are some nice picnic areas in the park, but it's always so crowded in the evenings at this time of year."

"It might not be as crowded tonight," Van said with a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you hear about the attacks last night?"

"Oh . . . yes, I did hear some gossip at work, but I was too busy to pay attention. Someone's house was broken into, wasn't it?"

"Worse," Van said. "Someone broke into the house and beat the crap out of the owner. Then they set the place on fire. "

"That's awful," Wendy said with a shudder, "but you don't really think that people will be staying away from the park because of a burglary gone wrong?"

"It wasn't a burglary," Van said grimly. "Nothing got stolen. And the sheriff said that this was actually the second attack like that this week."

"The sheriff?" Wendy repeated. "You talked to the sheriff?" She gave him a look that he couldn't decipher.

"Yeah." Van watched as Wendy reached for the picnic basket, then leaned across the table and casually picked it up himself. It was heavy, but that was a good thing, he reckoned. That meant it must be full of food.

"Thanks for grabbing that!"

"No problem." They walked out the door together into a cool evening, with the light slanting down through a light cloud cover.

"Isn't it a beautiful day for a picnic?" Wendy asked cheerfully. Van opened his mouth to suggest that it looked like rain, but stopped himself just in time, replying with just a noncommittal grunt. Truth be told, it _was_ a good day for a picnic. "So . . . what did the sheriff have to say?" she asked, giving him another sidelong glance.

He shrugged. "Same thing he did last time. Wanted to know if I would work for him."

"What did you say?" Wendy asked.

"I told him I wasn't sure I wanted a long-term job," Van said. He watched as Wendy's face fell. She dropped her head so that her straw hat hid her expression, but he could hear the disappointment in her voice as she simply said:

"I see."

"I agreed to work for him while they're dealing with these attacks," Van told her, "but I'm not signing any long term contract." He had hoped that that would cheer her up, but when she replied, her voice remained emotionless.

"I see." Damn it, what was it that she wanted him to say? If anyone had told him a year ago that he would consider a career in law enforcement, he would have stared open-mouthed in shock. It was only for Wendy's sake that he was even willing to consider it. If he were thinking only of himself, he would have simply turned down the offer.

Rather than argue about it, he kept his mouth shut. As a result, they had a quiet walk to the pond, which was at the far northern edge of the green belt surrounding Evergreen. Once they settled down to eat, Van did his best to put his surliness aside, but it was hard. Wendy was more subdued than usual, and he was still too irritated from arguing with the sheriff to be a very good companion. It was, on the whole, a failure of a picnic. Still, the food was good; even he couldn't deny that.

After the meal, Van lay back on the picnic blanket. He listened to the soft clinking and clanking sounds as Wendy wrapped up the dirty dishes and put them back in the basket. He watched the clouds drift overhead, then closed his eyes, figuring there would be time for a nap before they had to head back. Before he could drift off to sleep, however, he felt something brush against his hat.

"Hands off the hat," he muttered, but to soften the words, he caught Wendy's hand and held it, intertwining his fingers with hers.

"There was an ant crawling on your hat," she explained with a soft laugh. "I thought you'd want me to brush it off."

"Thanks," he said awkwardly. "I just don't like people messing with my hat." He squeezed her hand gently and released it.

"I don't think I've ever seen you without your hat on," Wendy mused.

"You probably never will," he told her, scornful of the idea that he might ever walk around hatless.

"I guess not," Wendy said, sounding hurt. Now, why on earth would_ that_ upset her? he wondered. Then he thought about what he'd just said, and hurried to clarify.

"I just meant . . . not . . . you know . . . not where other people can see." That didn't sound right at all. Even he knew that. He was just making things worse. He sat up and tried to look her in the face, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Does it really matter to you?" he asked anxiously.

"Of course not! It's not important. I just wondered what you looked like without your hat, that's all," she said, still looking down.

"Ah." He thought about it for a moment, then lifted his hat off his head. The ring on one corner chimed softly as he placed it carefully on the blanket, well away from any crawling ants. Wendy looked up at the sound, then gasped when she saw his bareheaded state. "So, what do I look like?" he asked, feeling uncomfortably exposed, and trying very hard not to mind.

Wendy stared for a moment, then smiled. He did look different without the hat. That unruly shock of black hair softened his face, somehow, and made him look younger. He looked just a little less like the hard-bitten hero who had earned her admiration by saving her hometown, and just a little more like a man you could eat breakfast with every day. But he still looked like Van. "I think you look wonderful," she told him honestly. And he smiled at her. It was a real smile, not the cocky smirk he sometimes showed in battle or the quick turning up of the corner of his mouth that she sometimes saw when he was pleased about something. Although it only lasted a few seconds, it briefly changed the whole shape of his face. In a way, seeing him smile so broadly was an even greater shock that seeing him without his hat. Her mouth fell open in surprise.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his face falling back into its usual somber lines.

"Nothing's wrong, silly," she told him, "but I don't think I've ever seen you smile like that."

"Hmmph," he said, dropping his eyes as if he were embarrassed at being caught in a moment of happiness. Then he looked up again with something more like his customary smirk on his face. "Your turn," he told her.

"You want me to take _my_ hat off?" she asked, surprised. She was already reaching up to remove her straw hat when he shook his head.

"Not that. I want to see you with your hair down," he told her. "You always wear it in those braid things. I want to see what it looks like loose."

"You've seen me with my hair down lots of times," she reminded him, but she set her own hat aside and began to untie the ribbon on the end of one of her pigtails.

"Not lately," he said. "It's all different now. I want to see what you look like now." Wendy supposed that to him, it _was _all different. Thanks to the symbiotic link that bound Van to his armor, he hadn't changed physically at all, but she knew that_ she_ had changed a great deal from the still-childish girl she had been in her early teens.

Though her right braid came undone easily, the ribbon on the left one was knotted too tightly. Try as she might, she couldn't get it loose.

"Let me try," he said. He scooted closer to her, then casually reached around to tug at the hair ribbon.

"That's not going to help!" she told him, "You'll just pull the knot tighter."

"No I won't," he said, and broke the hair ribbon with one snap. Wendy opened her mouth to protest, then froze as she felt his fingers running through her hair, shaking the hair loose from the confines of the braid. "That's better," he said, letting his hand rest on the nape of her neck. She decided not to argue about the ruined hair ribbon. Instead, she decided to finally take Karen's advice, which she had been ignoring for days. She turned towards him and leaned forward to kiss him.

That's when she discovered that her legs had fallen asleep, since she'd been kneeling on the picnic blanket for so long. As a result, she overbalanced and toppled over. Van reached out to catch her, but since he reached for her with the same arm he'd been leaning on, he was thrown off-balance too. The two of them ended up tumbling into a confused embrace on the ground. At least the picnic blanket softened the fall a little. "Sorry," Wendy and Van said simultaneously. She pulled away from him hastily, embarrassed.

"Hey, what's the rush?" he asked. He drew one arm tightly around her waist to keep her from moving away, and used the other one to prop himself back into a sitting position. "Wasn't there something you were going to do?" he suggested. Wendy blushed, but didn't try to move away again. Instead, she shifted into a more comfortable position, then leaned into his embrace. This time, her attempt to kiss him was much more successful. "Much better," he murmured, and she had to agree. Clearly, she just needed a little practice.

Van seemed perfectly willing to give her a chance to practice. He returned her kiss with one of his own that was longer, deeper, and more intense than any of their previous kisses had been. Wendy had the distinct feeling of being in over her head, but she responded as well as she could. When they finally broke apart, she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He tucked her head under his chin, and they rested like that for a few perfectly content moments.

Then all hell broke loose. "What was that?" Wendy asked, snapping up her head at a distant but ominous sound. They both turned and look back towards Evergreen. There was a column of black smoke just starting to rise above the belt of green trees which surrounded the town.

"What the hell?" Van murmured. He cocked his head, listening, then sighed. "Sounds like an armor attack."

"Yes, it does," Wendy whispered back, miserable at the thought. She recognized the sound as easily as Van did: she had heard many armor battles from a distance. But hadn't Evergreen seen enough violence in the past? She had thought that those days were over.

"They'll want my help with this for sure," Van grumbled. He clapped his hat back on his head and stood up, then gave Wendy a hand up. She regained her feet and shook out her now-wrinkled skirt.

"Be careful," Wendy said.

"You don't need to worry about me," he reminded her. "But you . . ." he looked down at her, frowning.

"What?"

"Just find someplace safe and stay there, all right?" he said.

She narrowed her eyes, already worrying about the town. "But if there's a fire, they might need help . . . if a lot of people are hurt, they'll need every able- bodied person who can tie a bandage to help. It would be selfish of me to just hide at a time like this!"

"I don't care about anyone but you," he said ruthlessly.

"Well, I_ do_ care, and I'm not just going to stand by and watch other people suffer if they need me . . ." Wendy snapped.

"_I_ need you," Van growled, interrupting her. "And if the town needs my help, that means they need you to stay in one piece, because I wouldn't bother with any of this if it weren't for you. So you'd damn well better stay safe, all right?"

He stalked away before she could reply. It was probably just as well, as she would have had no idea what to say.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five – Ambulances and Armor

Wendy considered doing as Van had said . . . for just about as long as it took him to summon Dann and fly in the direction of the problem. Then she made up her mind. She turned in the direction of Evergreen, determined to help out however she could. Van was worried about her; she understood that. But important as Van was to her, it was even more important to do the right thing. If her town was in danger again, she couldn't just sit back and wait for it to be rescued.

As she drew nearer to the center of town, she could hear the crashing of armor, which meant that the battle was ongoing. She was not close enough to see how many armors were involved, or whether Van had the upper hand yet. Anxious as she was, she tried to think the matter through on her way back to town. There was no need to go rushing into danger without first investigating.

So her first stop was to her own house. Kameo greeted her at the door with an unhappy squawk. "I don't know what's going on," Wendy told the enormous turtle, "but I don't think it's good. Don't worry. Van's taking care of it." Kameo nodded, but the frown didn't leave his face. He waddled after her into the kitchen and watched as she put the leftovers from the picnic away. When she was done, he spoke again, this time gesturing with his head towards the wall. He was pointing to her gun, Wendy realized. "Good idea." She removed it from the hook on the wall, checked to make sure that it was loaded, and slipped on the holster.

The familiar weight of the gun at her back was comforting. There had been a time when the revolver reminded her of the brother she had once loved more than anyone else in the world. Now, it reminded her of how much she had grown since the day Lucky took her brother away. Her whole world had changed that day, thought it had taken her months to realize that it wasn't possible to go back to the innocent childhood she had enjoyed under Micheal's guardianship. The gun reminded her of how much she could endure if necessary, and how much she could achieve. It was a tangible sign of the confidence she had gained in her journey.

"Keep an eye on things here for me, Kameo, okay?" Wendy said.

"Awww!" Kameo cried, nodding his head. Wendy flashed a quick smile at him, then headed out in to the heart of the disaster. She passed other people running the other way, looking terrified. Some ran empty-handed; others clutched precious possessions.

"What's going on?" Wendy asked everyone who was willing to stop long enough to answer.

"Fire!" some said. "A bomb!" others replied. "Armor attack!" was the most common explanation. But no one seemed to know who was riding the armor, or why the town was being attacked. She did, at least, learn what the attackers were targeting. They were fighting in the mall, of all places. Wendy wondered briefly whether she would still have a job in the morning, but she pushed that thought aside as she tried to force her way through the crowd in the center of the town. Apparently not everyone had chosen to run. Some had stayed to watch the mall burn.

By the time Wendy reached the town square, the armor battle had shifted away from the mall to Main Street. Wendy shuddered as she thought of all the property damage that might be done there, where most of the businesses catering to the tourist industry were located. There was nothing she could do about that, though. Instead, she looked around to see where her help might be needed.

There was an ambulance in the far corner of the square, surrounded by townspeople with weapons. Wendy headed in that direction, guessing that where the ambulance was, there were likely to be wounded people in need of assistance. Sure enough, she discovered that a field hospital had been set up inside the Red Ox tavern. Walking wounded lined the walls; the more seriously injured were placed on pallets on the floor. There was pandemonium everywhere. Dr. Talbot, from the free clinic, seemed to be in charge. He was covered in blood, but none of it appeared to be his.

"You!" Dr. Talbot yelled when he saw Wendy. "You're not hurt, so you'd better help. What can you do?"

"I have advanced first aid certification—" Wendy began.

"What can you DO?"

"I can bandage wounds, monitor heart rate, and administer CPR," she offered.

"Great. You're responsible for that row of patients. Some of them may be bleeding to death, so move quickly." And she did. There were five patients in the row assigned to her, and although the worst wounds had already been dressed, it had been poorly done by someone who didn't know what he or she was doing. Wendy couldn't stitch up the wounds or do anything for the pain, but she could at least make sure that they were properly bandaged. When she ran into something over her head, she called for help.

Four of the patients were people familiar to her only by name or face. The fifth patient was Sarah Jane Parker, her assistant from the Café. Sarah was unconscious; she looked like she was in shock. She was also bleeding heavily. Wendy applied a pressure bandage to the wound in Sarah's arm, then elevated her feet. She found a clean blanket and covered her with, then sat beside her to watch for further trouble. She didn't like the blue-gray coloring to Sarah's face. Wendy was no doctor, but she knew enough about emergency first aid to know that that was an ominous sign.

It wasn't until she sat down and had a chance to catch her breath that she realized how much quieter everything had become. True, the people in the field hospital were still yelling out orders, calling for help, or arguing with anxious relatives who wanted to know how their loved ones were doing. But Wendy could no longer hear the sirens of the fire brigade or the crashing of combatting armors. Was the battle over, she wondered? And if so, what had happened to the attackers? She had little anxiety about Van the Indestructible: wherever he was, he was probably fine. But she hoped that there would be some answers about the reason for this attack.

* * *

><p>With three against one, it had been a long and difficult battle, but Van had the last of the enemy armor cornered, caught between the water tower and the power plant. It wasn't a good place for a fight, because a wrong move here could mean taking down the electricity or the water supply for the town. The assailant wasn't likely to care about that, though, which meant that the location was primarily a handicap for Van.<p>

These attackers, whoever they were, used tripod armor: heavy and low to the ground, covered with very solid outer plating. Dann had more maneuverability, but these armor were hard to fight. They were too stable to knock over easily, and too well-armored to be easily pierced from above. Van had had to resort to simply crushing the first one. The second had gotten away completely while he was chasing this one.

As for this armor, he had just managed to hack off one of its three legs. That meant that it had lost the advantage of stability. Now Van was leading it in a complicated dance, trying to get it to tip over. He wanted to defeat this one without destroying it, if he could, because the sheriff wanted him to capture at least one of the riders alive. If all of them were killed, there'd be no way to get answers.

The armor made a sudden dart to the left, attempting to slip around Van and make an escape. But Dann could more quickly than a crippled tripod. Van closed in and struck one of the remaining legs with Dann's sword. As he had hoped, the armor wobbled, tipped, and came crashing down. He waited above it with a drawn sword, but there was no movement. Either the armor was out of commission, or the rider was.

Two deputies who had been following him on the ground now slowly approached the armor, their weapons drawn. The sheriff followed them, limping slightly. That guy was too old for this job, Van thought dispassionately. Evergreen needed better law enforcement. But it wasn't his problem, and he certainly wasn't going to worry about it.

Still . . . if that armor rider wasn't seriously injured, the sheriff had his men would be exposing themselves. They might need help. Van clambered out of the cockpit, slid to the ground, and joined them, keeping on hand on his sword hilt in case of trouble.

Once on the ground, he could see that the cockpit of the tripod had cracked open, and a piece of metal had struck the rider in the head. It looked messy. "Damn," Van said. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yeah," the sheriff grunted. He had been checking the rider's pulse. "Fractured skull. He didn't have a chance. What about the other two? They get away?"

"No. Only one got away," Van replied. "But I'm pretty sure the third one is in no condition to talk. I had to completely crush his armor to stop him."

"They were well armed," the sheriff said with a sigh. He stood up slowly, rubbing his knee as if it pained him.

"The town wasn't prepared for an attack like this," Van said. He looked around at the destruction. Smoke was rising from at least two locations, and the mall was a disaster. At least the power plant and the water tower were still standing. "I'd have thought you people learned a lesson after Lucky."

"We did," the sheriff said mildly. "We have a stronger police force now than we did before. We have better emergency services. But a town this small simply isn't equipped to handle three armors at a time." Van just grunted in reply. Even he had trouble fighting three at one time. These were powerfully armors, too, and the riders were clearly used to working as a team. Individually, they wouldn't have been a problem, but taken together, they were the toughest enemy he'd faced in years. He guessed he couldn't find fault with the town for not being prepared for an attack of this magnitude.

"Sorry I couldn't keep him alive for you to question," he said.

"Not your fault. More important to stop him. Maybe that third fellow is still alive, anyway." Van nodded, then turned away. Dann had taken a beating, and needed to be sent back to his satellite to heal. It might take him a couple of days to repair: a pain, but one that couldn't be helped.

"By the way," the sheriff said, "thank you. We'd have been decimated without your help. Don't think we don't appreciate it."

"No problem," Van said, but he thought: I didn't do it for_ you_.


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six – Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Van expected to find Wendy in her home a few blocks away from the town square, but only the turtle was there. If the turtle knew where Wendy was, he couldn't say. So Van ventured back out into the smoky air, looking for any place where people were gathered. The community center was serving as an emergency shelter, but though Van wandered through the crowd for nearly half an hour, he could not find Wendy, or anyone who had seen her. He wandered back out, feeling increasingly anxious.

"Hey," someone called out to him, "You're Van, aren't you?" He looked up to see a girl about Wendy's age who was carrying a basket heaped with bread. She was covered with streaks of soot, and had tied her brown hair back in a rough ponytail.

"Yeah," he said. "Have we met?" He thought that her face looked vaguely familiar, but he didn't know her name.

"We've met a couple of times," she told him, "but don't worry; I know you're bad with names. I'm Karen."

"Wendy's friend," he realized, finally placing her. "Hey, have you seen—"

"Wendy? When I saw her, she was in the field hospital they set up in the Red Ox . . ."

"A hospital?" he interrupted. "What happened?"

"There were a lot of people injured, and the road to the nearest hospital was blocked by a bunch of downed trees, so they needed a place to start treating the worst victims—"

"WHAT HAPPENED TO WENDY?" he demanded. She shrank back from him, looking startled.

"Nothing happened! She was helping out."

"Helping?" Van repeated, puzzled. Helping how?" What could Wendy do to help in an emergency like this?

"With first aid. You know, she started taking first aid classes when she became a chef, because she was always worried about what would happen if someone were hurt in the kitchen while she was in charge, and . . ."

"Which way?" Van demanded, not interested in the rest of the story.

"That away," the girl said, jerking her chin in the direction of the town square. "It's on the southwest side of the square, in a block of buildings that weren't damaged much. You'll know it right away by the ambulances in front. But I wouldn't bother Wendy right now. She's probably busy. They—"

"Thank you," Van said curtly. He didn't have time to listen to chit-chat. He strode off in the direction of the town square, wondering what the hell Wendy was doing in the middle of the combat zone. Hadn't she listened to anything he said?

Once he reached the tavern, he pushed his way past the anxious-looking woman with a clipboard at the entrance of the field hospital, ignoring her demand that he tell her who he was visiting. He scanned the faces on the crowd, looking for orange-red pigtails and determined green eyes.

Wendy wasn't where he expected to see her. He had thought that she would be one of the figures bustling to and fro. Instead, she was sitting on the ground in one corner of the room, with her head bowed and her arms wrapped around her knees. Even from this distance he could see that she was covered with blood. He moved across the crowded floor quickly, ignoring complaints from people he jostled in his hurry to get to her.

"Hey," he called, "Wendy, are you all right?" She looked up and he saw that she had been crying. Her tears left clean traces in her soot-smudged face.

"Van," she whispered. "You won the battle?"

"Sort of," he said, "One of them got away. That doesn't matter right now." He sank down to the ground, kneeling beside her, and took her face in his hands. "What's wrong with you? Are you hurt?"

"What?"

"All that blood—"

"Oh . . . no . . . it's not mine." She sniffled suddenly, and rubbed her eyes with the back of one hand. "A lot of it is Sarah Jane's."

"Who's Sarah Jane?" Van asked. He didn't really give a damn who Sarah Jane was, but he could see that something had shaken Wendy, and he wanted to know what.

"She was my assistant at the Café," Wendy said. "She's dead now." And her face wrinkled up with pain. "I wasn't able to save her," she whispered. "I tried, but I failed." Van reached out and pulled her into his arms, wishing this were something he could fix. He would have defeated an entire army of tripod armor if that would take away Wendy's pain.

"You're not a doctor," he said roughly. "And you can't work miracles. It's not your fault."

"I know," she said, "I just wish that . . . there was nothing I could do . . . she was only sixteen, Van!" She turned her face towards him, crying into his shoulder. He tightened his grip on her and gently kissed the top of her head, feeling increasingly helpless. He seldom knew the right thing to say even in the best of situations. There was nothing he could say here.

"Miss um . . . Garrison?" someone said. Van and Wendy both looked up to see a tall, frazzled-looking doctor whose white coat was thoroughly stained with blood and smoke.

"Garret," Wendy corrected quietly. "Wendy Garret."

"Miss Garret, you'd better go home. You need to rest."

"But—"

"You won't be any use if you collapse," the doctor said firmly. "And now that the roads are clear, we'll be moving people to the hospital. This field hospital will be closing down as soon as we can get everyone out of here. You've been a great help, but it's time to go." Wendy nodded, and Van let out of a tiny sigh of relief. He had been afraid that she would refuse to go home. It could be awfully hard to get Wendy to change her mind about anything she had set her mind on.

"C'mon," he murmured to her, "let's get you home."

"Okay," she said. He helped her up, keeping one of her hands in his as they threaded their way back through the crowd. She had stopped crying, but she remained silent, and she walked with her head down.

"I don't know what you were doing there in the first place," he muttered to her once they were out of the hospital.

"What do you mean? I was helping. They needed people with first aid training . . ."

"I thought I told you to find somewhere safe and stay there. I didn't mean that you should wander into the middle of a fight and start playing nurse!"

"I wasn't in any danger," Wendy snapped back. "And they needed me." This again, he realized. He thought they'd already settled this issue. Half of him wanted to thunder and roar at her for having scared him. The other half wanted to take in her in his arms and never let her go until the threat to the town was entirely over.

He compromised, and simply muttered: "I got worried when I couldn't find you."

"I'm sorry," she said in a softer voice, "but-"

"But nothing!" He interrupted, starting to lose what little hold on his temper he had maintained. "When I'm out there fighting, I need to know that you're safe!"

"That's awfully selfish, don't you think?"

"Selfish?" He turned to face her and stared, shocked. "How does worrying about you make me _selfish_?" She lifted her face and looked straight into his eyes. He knew that expression on her face all too well. This was the look Wendy gave him when she was about to say something he didn't want to hear.

"I think it's selfish of you to value your own peace of mind more than other people's lives," she told him.

"It's not my peace of mind I care about," he snapped back. "It's your safety."

"Fine, then. I still think it's selfish of you to value your . . . your . . ." she paused, then blurted it out: "your girlfriend's safety so much that you try to prevent her from doing her civic duty."

"Civic duty?" he repeated, feeling as if he had somehow accidentally wandered into someone else's conversation. "What does that even mean?"

"I'm a citizen of Evergreen," she told him. "I have a responsibility to help my town when it's in trouble. If you don't like that . . ." She faltered for a moment, looking uncertain.

"If I don't like it, what?" Van asked.

"If you don't like that, then maybe you should get a new girlfriend," she told him. His jaw dropped open.

"Don't joke about that," he said at last. Some things weren't funny.

"I mean it, Van," she said. And he could tell from the look on her face that that she did. "This isn't negotiable! I have to be free to do what I think is right, even if you're worried about me."

"And I don't get any say, is that it?" She dropped her eyes, so that he couldn't read her expression.

"You're always free to give me your opinion," she said quietly. "But you don't have the right to tell me what to do." She looked up again and met his eyes. "When we traveled together all those years ago, you were an adult, and I was hardly more than a child. It was your responsibility to look after me then. But I'm a grown woman now. If you're going to . . . if we're going to . . ." she faltered, looking away again, and stammered a little as she tried to get it out. "If you want to be with me, you need to treat me as your partner."

"I see," Van said, not knowing what else to say.

"Do you?" Wendy asked. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I guess." He understood, all right. On some level he even had to agree with her. He certainly didn't want to play the role of father figure to her. But that wasn't how it was at all. She was the most precious thing in the world to him now. Was it so wrong of him to want to protect her? "Can I at least walk you home, to make sure you get there safely?" he asked bitterly.

"Of course you can walk me home," she said, taking his arm. They turned in the direction of her street and began walking again. They had traveled a few yards in silence when she added: "But it's not as if I'll be safe at home, either. There were a few private homes damaged in today's attack, and you never know what will happen next." He clenched his jaw, wondering if she was trying to provoke him.

"You could leave town until it blows over," he suggested.

"You know I can't do that," she said fiercely. Yes, he knew. As young as she had been when the Wild Bunch had laid siege to Evergreen, she had still refused to abandon her home for the sake of her own safety. Wendy was nothing if not loyal. It was one of the things he loved about her, even if, at the moment, he found it infuriating.

They said nothing as they walked the last few yards to Wendy's house. This far from the center of the town there was little damage, but some power lines must have been out somewhere, because the house was dark.

"I'll have to light some candles," Wendy said. "That'll be fun, won't it?"

"Sitting in the dark is fun?"

"Didn't I tell you that already?" she asked, laughing ruefully. "It's one of the best ways to spend a summer evening." She looked up at him and smiled. "Look, Van, let's not quarrel. Why don't you come in and have a glass of milk?"

"I can't now," he said curtly. "I have to get back and see if the sheriff needs my help."

"Oh, right."

"But . . ." He paused, and shot a nervous look in her direction, not sure how she would take his next suggestion.

"Yes?"

"If it's all right with you," he said, "can I sleep on your couch tonight?"

"Of course you can," she said, "but why . . ."

"I need to be in reach of the station house in case there's trouble," he explained. "I won't be much help if it takes someone half an hour to find where I'm camping. This way, I can let the sheriff know I'm staying with you, and it'll be easy for them to find me if they need me." She frowned. "Of course, if you want your privacy . . ." he began, glancing at her uncertainly from underneath his hat.

"It's not that," she replied. "I like having you around. But the neighbors might gossip, you know . . . I mean, if they see you spending the night." Even in the darkening twilight, he could see that she had blushed slightly at the thought of what people would say. He had thought of that problem already, but he was sure that there was at least one way to silence wagging tongues.

"People will find out that I've working for the sheriff soon enough," he reminded Wendy. "They'll probably assume you just wanted me around for protection." He gave a short, bitter laugh at the irony of that, and turned to go. "See you later," he said.

"Van—" she reached out and took his hand. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"I do feel safer with you around," she told him. "I'll sleep better tonight knowing that you're nearby." She smiled at him, and he gave her a half-smile in return.

"All right then," he said. He wanted to add more—to tell her to lock the door, to keep her revolver by her side, and not to wander too far from the watchful eyes of her guardian turtle—but he restrained himself. He didn't want to disturb the fragile peace they'd built up. So he simply tipped his hat at her and went back to work. With one man still to interrogate, and another who might return at any moment with reinforcements, it was probably going to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven – Rebuilding

Although the Café Evergreen had not been in the part of the mall that was completely ruined, part of the dining room had been heavily damaged, and the whole restaurant had suffered smoke damage, like everything else. And, of course, the whole mall was going to be closed for weeks for repairs. Wendy assumed, therefore, that she was going to be out of work for a while. Jean-Jacques might well find a new location for the restaurant outside the mall, but even that would take time.

Wendy had money in the bank, so she wasn't worried about the immediate future, though it troubled her to think that she'd have to use up most of her savings. She already had a plan for that money, and she would hate to lose it.

So it was a welcome surprise to her when Jean-Jacques showed up at her house the morning after the attack, asking her to come back to work. Wendy was still making breakfast, so she cracked a couple more eggs into the skillet as she listened to his proposal. The community center was still full of people whose homes had been damaged, he said. The grocery stores in town had all donated food, but surely the refuges deserved something better to eat than pre-packaged oatmeal and ramen noodles? That, according to Jean-Jacques, was where the Café Evergreen came in. Those of the workers who were ready and willing to work would serve meals three times a day at the community center. It would be thankless work, no doubt, but it would be an act of charity. And, Jean-Jacques casually mentioned, he would naturally pay the normal hourly ages of his employees.

"What? How are you going to do that?" Wendy wanted to know. Jean-Jacques dismissed the question as if it were immaterial. He would be collecting donations, naturally. And he was willing to use some of his personal savings. And perhaps some of the refugees would be willing to pay, though of course he would not demand payment. The staff would be reduced: there would be no need for all of the dishwashers and assistants for simple meals like soup and sandwiches. And of course not all of the staff was available. Some employers spoke of leaving town; some were injured . . .

"And some are dead," Wendy said, thinking of Sarah Jane. There may have been others, too; at the moment, she wasn't sure that she wanted to know. They both bowed their heads for a moment, thinking about the unexpected loss. Wendy had not known Sarah Jane for that long, but she had been responsible for her training. She had lost a promising pupil.

"So, will you do it?" Jean-Jacques asked in conclusion.

"Do what?" asked a sleepy voice from the doorway. Van was awake at last, his tuxedo rather rumpled from a night spent on a too-small couch.

"This is my employer, Jean-Jacques Poirot," Wendy explained. "He wants me to come make meals for the refugees at the community center."

"Why would you do that?" Van wanted to know.

"Because cooking for people is my job!" Wendy snapped, thinking: it's not as if he objects to me working when I'm cooking for _him_! Really, he was incredibly selfish.

"Wendy's unique style of cooking has made the Café Evergreen more popular than ever in the last two years," Jean-Jacques said quickly. "The people of Evergreen could use such talents in their time of woe." Jean-Jacques' tendency to talk with his hands was on full display, and Wendy had to struggle to contain her smile at his grandiose delivery. It _was_ a time of woe, that was true—but it was hard to keep a straight face when Jean-Jacques was being so very melodramatic.

"Isn't the community center in the town square?" Van asked.

"Yes," Wendy said slowly, suddenly realizing where this was going. "You think this job would be dangerous?"

"That's where they attacked last time," Van pointed out with a shrug. "It could happen again." He didn't sound terribly concerned, but it stated it as if it were an obvious fact.

"Ah, but our Wendy has a good head in a crisis," Jean-Jacques said enthusiastically. "The community center would probably want to have her around!"

"Is that so?" Van replied diffidently. Wendy thought she detected a little skepticism in his voice. Was it really so hard to believe that other people might think that she was competent? But he said nothing else, so perhaps she had imagined it.

He simply stared at the plate of bacon and eggs that Wendy had placed in front of him. "Can I have . . ." he started to ask. Wendy slammed the Tabasco sauce down in front of him with what she knew was too much violence. Jean-Jacques looked back and forth between the two of them nervously.

"Of course, if you don't want to work in the community center, you don't have to," Jean-Jacques told Wendy. "When the café opens for business again, your job will be waiting for you. You've no need to worry about that."

"I'd love to work in the community center," Wendy told him. She forced a smile that she did not feel in the slightest. "That way I'll feel like I'm helping."

"Excellent!" he said. "I'll see you later today." And he bolted out the door. Wendy couldn't blame him. Most people in his shoes would have cracked earlier.

"You didn't have to be so rude," Wendy told Van. Van kept his head down so that his hat covered his eyes as he answered.

"How was I rude? I hardly said anything!"

"Yes, but I could tell you were thinking something!"

"Whatever." He shrugged and finished the last of his milk. Then he looked up and met her eyes at last. "Don't worry about money. That's not a problem. The sheriff is paying me extra for overtime. I can pay for all the groceries I've been eating, if you want."

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't need your money," Wendy told him. "You should put it in the bank until you need it."

"Why would I do that?" To Wendy's great relief, the conversation shifted away from the touchy subject of Wendy's safety to the intellectually- more-complicated but less emotional concept of savings accounts and interest. Wendy had tried to explain banking to Van in the past with no success, and she rather doubted that she was making much more headway this time, but at least it was a relatively safe topic of conversation. This way, they were able to part on a good note when it was time for her to go to work. If Van wanted to prevent her from leaving, he said nothing about it. When she kissed him goodbye, he returned her kiss back with interest—but when she looked back at him through the window, she saw that he was already frowning about something.

* * *

><p>Jean-Jacques' original plan had been that the café workers would serve simple meals to the refugees camping out in the community center. Things went according to plan the first day, but on the second day, off-duty police officers began coming into the community center asking for food—and offering to pay for it. A few days after that, repairmen and construction workers joined the lines.<p>

At the same time, the number of refuges dwindled. Some people returned to their homes, while others found shelter with friends and relatives. Wendy would have predicted that this meant fewer meals served, but she was wrong. As life began to return to some semblance of normal in Evergreen, diners who had been regulars at the Café began slipping into the community center and asking if the cooks could make their favorite dishes.

After a week of this, Jean-Jacques gave up the pretense that they were serving "emergency rations" and began talking about their operation as an "indoor bistro." He approached the community center director with the suggestion that the café pay for some modest renovations to the old concession stand next to the theater, which would enable them to offer a more extensive menu. The community center director, Maria Velasquez, was an enthusiastic supporter—until the mayor protested. Would the work be done according to code? the major wondered. What would happen to the bistro once the Café Evergreen opened up again? Evergreen already had a handful of taverns and restaurants; did it really need another one, particularly in the city square? But if it simply closed down once the mall was running again, what was the point of doing remodeling?

"It's all bullshit," Karen told Wendy as they were cleaning up the kitchen after lunch one day. This kind of work was the downside to the current arrangement. On the one hand, Wendy's cooking duties were much lighter than they would have been at the café, because the menu was limited and they were feeding fewer people. On the other hand, fewer workers meant more work for everyone. Wendy would have preferred her usual work to cleaning and prepping the workspace, but one advantage of the looser breakdown of duties was that she sometimes had a chance to chat with Karen during work hours.

"I don't know," Wendy said. "The mayor might have a point. This really isn't the ideal location." She gestured at the cramped kitchen, which had really been intended only for making popcorn and funnel cakes and serving ice cream. "And I know that during the lunch rush the lobby fills up with more people than it ought to hold.

"They can solve that by putting tables out on the veranda," Karen said. "Walter might not want the wait staff to have to trot in and out all the time, but we can handle it. The mayor just has a bee in his bonnet about something."

"Do you think he's still upset about that casino measure being turned down by the town council?"

"You didn't hear?" Karen paused in her cleaning. She brushed a long strand of hair out of her eyes as she looked at Wendy. "It wasn't turned down. The council never officially voted on it, because too many of the members were out of commission."

"Really?" Wendy thought about it. She tried to remember what she'd heard about the various town council members, but she wasn't coming up with much. "Tom Velasquez was in the hospital, but he's out now, isn't he?"

"Right, but my uncle is still home bound because of a broken hip, so he can't go to the meetings."

"I didn't know that!" Wendy said. "You should have told me."

"It happened after the main attack," Karen explained. "His house was one of the ones broken into by those burglars, or whatever they are."

"I'm guessing they didn't steal anything?" Wendy said, trying to remember what Van had told her about the on-going series of break-ins. She had nearly forgotten about those smaller crimes in the wake of the disaster that had struck the town.

"Not as far as we could tell," Karen said grimly, "but they sure trashed the place, and they left him in a real mess."

"That's awful! Is he doing any better now?"

"A little, but he's going to be out of commission for awhile. And Sherry Crawford left town, you know, to stay with her daughter in River City."

"I didn't know that, either," Wendy said. Why was that name familiar? Wendy was sure that she didn't know Sherry Crawford at all, but she was also certain that she had been talking about her not that long ago. She opened her mouth to ask Karen about it, but they were interrupted by Walter, who wanted to consult Wendy about the menu for the next day. In the decision about whether the bistro's hard-working patrons would readily accept a cold beet soup instead of a salad, Wendy forgot about the matter of the town council. It wasn't as if it really affected her, anyway. Surely no one cared about the idea of building a casino now, when the town was going to be busy rebuilding for months?


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight – Plans and Rumors

Eventually, the mayor relented on the issue of allowing the bistro to set up permanent shop in the community center. He gave them permission to do minor remodels to the old kitchen, and began talking about the extra traffic that the restaurant might bring to the center. Perhaps people would come for the food, and stay to look at the art gallery and historical exhibits that so often went unnoticed.

Karen thought it was the pressure of the remaining town council members that made the mayor crack. Wendy thought his change of mind was more likely to be the result of the mayor's own well-known fondness for sweet and spicy barbecue sandwiches the bistro had begun serving. In any event, he approved the plan, and the tiny restaurant closed down for a few days to allow the installation of better cooking equipment.

By that time, Wendy was glad to have a few days off. She had been working more hours than usual, and she had fallen behind in everything: housework, hobbies, caring for Kameo, and spending time with Van.

These last few weeks had been odd. In some ways, she had seen more of Van than ever. But she never knew when she would see him. Some days she came home from work to find him asleep on the couch, or eating leftovers in the kitchen. Other times, she woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the front door clicking shut as he came home after a night shift. He might join her for breakfast, or he might be long gone by the time her alarm clock woke her up. It was hit or miss. The sheriff had him running patrols at odd hours of the day, every day of the week. There were some days when Van worked ten hours in a row, snatched a few hours of sleep in the middle of the afternoon, and then was back patrolling the streets at night.

And yet, somehow, all this effort it was not enough to keep the town safe. There had been at least two more burglaries, despite the increased vigilance. Once, Van caught sight of a burglar, and went after him on foot, only to be derailed by a dogfight in the middle of the street . . . a literal dogfight, in which one of the parties took a dislike to Van. Another time, he thought he had found the burglar, but it turned out to be poor Reverend Miter returning home from a late-night youth group meeting. These mishaps made good stories at the dinner table, but Wendy knew that Van found his lack of success frustrating. This cat-and-mouse gaming wasn't really his forte. He was much better at a straightforward fight.

Unfortunately, the one armor rider who had been captured alive did not live long enough to be questioned, so there was no way of knowing who the armor riders were working for, or why they had attacked Evergreen. This meant that the sheriff simply kept coming up with more and more complicated methods of surveillance, which meant in turn that Van was being run more and more ragged.

Karen kept asking how things were with Van, and Wendy was never sure what to answer. She simply said that she wasn't seeing as much of him as she liked, and this was true, despite the fact that he was constantly in and out of her house. She missed the evenings when the two of them had watched the sunset while eating dessert. Between his odd hours and the eating and resting he needed in order to keep working, Van had little time to spend talking with her.

In a way, though, that was a good thing, because she was not sure anymore what to talk about. She asked about his work, and told him about her own work at the bistro, but she was always aware that he was uneasy about something. She was not sure what was bothering him. At first she thought that he was simply worried about her, but that seemed increasingly less likely. It had been weeks since the armor attack, and it seemed unlikely that there would be a second one now, so Wendy was in no real danger at her job. And, to give him credit, Van had never again referred to the possibility that she might simply leave Evergreen until the trouble tided over.

But something was wrong. Wendy didn't know what was troubling Van, but she gradually realized that on her part, the strange awkwardness stemmed from the fact that there was a whole series of questions she wanted to ask him, but couldn't bring herself to ask. She wanted to know if he still considered his job with the sheriff's department to be temporary, for instance. She knew by now, from all the gossip that she had heard in the bistro, that many of the town's residents were hoping that their hero in the tuxedo would stay to guard Evergreen permanently. Some of the neighbors were bold enough to ask Wendy directly if he it was true that he was going to be there for good. She could only smile and shake her ahead. "He hasn't decided," she would say. "I hope so," she sometimes added.

One time, the inquisitive elderly lady questioning her about Van's plans shook her head at Wendy and answered back: "I hope you're giving him something to stay for, young lady!" Wendy had blushed, muttered something that was incoherent even to her own ears, and ended the conversation.

That was, in fact, one of things which Wendy couldn't bring herself to ask Van: just how long was he going to be content sleeping on the couch? They had never really talked about what he was doing here in Evergreen, how long he would stay, or on what terms. Wendy had always assumed—without always being willing to admit the assumption aloud to anyone—that he was staying there to be with her. She hoped that he intended to stay for the rest of her life.

But if that was his intention, he had never said so. He never talked about his plans or his desires at all. She didn't know whether she ought to be helping him find a home of his own, so that he didn't have to keep crashing at her place—or if she should be looking at wedding dresses, because he _would_ be living with her permanently.

She could hardly ask him that outright. How could one begin such a conversation? It was especially tricky given the way that the subject of matrimony was bound up in some of Van's most painful memories. They had talked about their shared past quite a bit in the several weeks that they had been together, but they never talked about Elena. Wendy did not want to be the first one to bring up that name, and yet, she did not quite know how they could talk about the future without at least thinking about the past.

So, on the rare occasions when they had a chance to talk for more than a few minutes, Wendy chatted about innocuous subjects as the weather, work, and whether or not Kameo was still growing. (Van claimed that the turtle was getting larger and scarier every day; Wendy was certain that Kameo's recent growth spurt was over.)

While life with Van remained in that strange limbo, life in Evergreen more generally began to return to normal. The bistro opened again, with its new and better kitchen. The menu expanded, and more of the Café's customers began coming around for lunch. Because of the short staff, Wendy had to pinch hit as a waitress from time to time, so she heard more of the gossip than she usually did when working in the kitchen. The gossip now was all about possibility of an upcoming town festival. The annual Freedom Day celebrations had been canceled, naturally, but as more and more people returned to their homes and their jobs, customers at the bistro started talking about whether it might be possible to celebrate the holiday anyway, even if it was a few weeks late.

At first, Wendy assumed that there were no grounds to such rumors. The town was using up most of its annual budget for extra security and the repair of town property. Surely there wouldn't be money to spend on fireworks displays or a dance?

But when Jean-Jacques began talking about doing the catering for the dance, she knew that it was more than rumor. Sure enough, the mayor announced it publicly a few days later: Evergreen would be holding an abbreviated version of the usual week-long festival, with a fireworks display one night, and the dance the night after that. It would serve as an end-of-the-summer celebration.

Wendy brought up the subject of the dance just once with Van. "The sheriff'll want me to patrol," he had said shortly, and that was that. So the whole week before the dance, Wendy had to keep telling various acquaintances that yes, she was going to be there, but no, she wouldn't be bringing her new beau. "Either he needs a better job, or you need a better boyfriend," Karen told Wendy the day before the dance. "He shouldn't be standing you up for something this important."

"He's not standing me up," Wendy said fiercely. "He's working hard. The sheriff asks a lot of him." She believed what she said, but she couldn't help sighing after saying it. She didn't really mind about the dance, but she did wish that she could see more of Van.

That night, though, she seemed to be in luck. Van was there when she came home from work, and for once, he was awake. He was idly playing with a puzzle on the coffee table, but he tossed the pieces aside when she came in. "Finally," he said, but the corner of his mouth curve upward slightly, revealing how happy he was to see her. He stood up, and Wendy stepped into his arms to give him a long, tight hug. "You work too much," he complained; then he brushed his lips against her forehead.

"You should talk," she teased back, confident that he was simply trying to say that he missed her as much as she missed him. "Seems like I hardly see you anymore."

"Things will be better if we can catch these burglars," he grumbled. "But I'm here now." He tipped her chin up with one finger and kissed her lightly on the lips. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Tonight?" Wendy considered. Since she hadn't known that he was going to be here, she hadn't bothered to plan ahead. "Make some popcorn and work on this puzzle?" she suggested. It was the best thing she could think of off the top of her head.

"All right. I have to go back work around midnight, but we can do whatever you want until then."

"Great!" Wendy said, beaming. She reluctantly released Van from her embrace, then headed into the kitchen to look for her popcorn maker. Finding it took longer than she had expected. The last time she'd seen it, it had been in the pantry; somehow, it had migrated to the cupboard above the range.

The popcorn plan had seemed like a good one, but she ran into a snag: by the time she came out of the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn, Van had fallen asleep on the couch. "The man of a thousand naps," she murmured, shaking her head. She put the popcorn down on the coffee table and watched her sleeping sweetheart for a few minutes, trying to decide whether to wake him. On the one hand, she had been dearly missing his company lately. On the other hand, he looked completely exhausted—and he was going to have to go back to work at midnight. So, she tucked a blanket around him, switched off all the lights but the reading light beside her armchair, and settled down to read a novel Yukiko Lundgren had recommended to her.

She hadn't gotten far in her book when a distant noise startled her. Gunfire? No, it was too loud. An armor?

"Rrrrooor?" Kameo asked, waking up from his own nap to peer out the window.

"I don't know what that is," Wendy said, joining the turtle at the window. They both peered out into the night, looking for signs of a battle. But there was nothing to be seen for a moment . . . until she saw a shower of sparks falling from the sky. Of course: there was a fireworks display in the park tonight. She had completely forgotten about that. She looked back at Van, wondering again if she should wake him up and see if he wanted to watch the fireworks with her. But it seemed a shame to do that when he was going to have to work again soon enough anyway. "What do you think, Kameo?" she asked. "Should I just go by myself?"

"Meh," Kameo said. It didn't really answer the question, but it sounded reassuring.

"All right, then. I'll do it." She turned to the door, but to her surprise, Kameo stopped her.

"Maaah," he said, gesturing with his head towards the wall, where Wendy had hung up her revolver.

"Oh, right. Better to be prepared," she agreed, taking the gun down. It was loaded, of course, so all she had to do was slip on the holster. She felt a little foolish going out armed , but the gun was a comfort, even if it wasn't the most fashionable accessory.

Wendy arrived in time to watch a series of beautiful fountains, but it was hard to find a good place from which to view the display. The park was full: it seemed like everyone in Evergreen must have been there.

"Why, it's Miss Garret," someone said. Wendy turned around, expecting to see a neighbor, or maybe one of her regular customers. Instead, she saw a man in a light colored suit with a snazzy hat and a toothy grin. It took her a moment to remember where she'd seen him before, and by the time she recognized him, he was already shaking her hand and introducing himself again.

"Jacob Darlington," he told her. "I must say, it's always a disappointment when a pretty girl like you forgets me. I'll have to make sure you remember me this time." And he smiled even more broadly.

"I remember you," Wendy said weakly, wishing that he would let go of her hand. "You had lunch with the mayor at the Café . . . oh, it must have been a couple of months ago, now."

"Indeed," he said, still looking entirely too pleased. "You served us an exquisite lunch."

"Thank you. Well, I have to . . . um . . . " she hemmed and hawed, not sure what to give as her excuse for leaving.

"Wait a minute, Miss Garret—or Wendy, if I may." You may _not_, Wendy thought fiercely, but she said nothing. She just gave him a tight-lipped smile and tried to take her hand out of his. He tightened his grip. "I was wondering if you had an escort to tomorrow's dance," he asked her. "I've heard that your beau isn't able to attend. I'd be delighted to offer myself as an escort in his place . . . just for one evening, of course."

"What you heard was incorrect," Wendy lied. "It's very kind of you to offer your company, but I already have an escort."

"Perhaps, then, I will be able to steal a dance with you?" he suggested, still clinging to her hand, despite her attempt to pull it away. What was _with _this guy? she wondered.

"Perhaps," she said, without smiling this time. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go." She turned and walked away, despite the fact that the grand finale of the display was clearly beginning. He had ruined that. And he had very likely ruined the dance, too, because how could she possibly go by herself when she had claimed that Van was going to escort her? She sighed, wishing that she had thought of a better way to turn him down. To top it all off, her wrist hurt from where he had been gripping it.

She was still mentally shuddering from the conversation with Darlington even after she had gotten a couple of blocks away. Then she heard the first scream coming from the park. The conversation with Darlington was completely forgotten in the shock. She whipped around, trying to see, but from this far away, she could tell nothing about what was going on. Was it an armor attack? A fire? Or something else?

She paused for a moment, biting her lip and trying to think about what to do. Then, suddenly, she knew. She turned around and began racing for home. Whatever was happening in the park, she doubted that she could solve the problem with just a handgun. The town needed Van for this one.


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine – Van and Kameo

Van woke from a nightmare about turtles at the beach. It took him a moment to recover from that harrowing vision. As he came to his senses, he realized that Wendy was frantic about something. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked. She had been shaking his shoulder with one hand. As he sat up, he covered her hand with his own, trying to calm her.

"There's another attack," she said. "Or something. I'm not sure."

"Where?" he asked. He tossed aside the blanket that had been covering him and checked to make sure his sword was secure.

"The park," she said, sighing. "They were having a fireworks display. Everything seemed fine, but I left early . . . and then, when I was halfway home, I heard people screaming."

"Probably some malfunction with the fireworks," he suggested, though he did not think they would lucky enough for there to be so simple a solution. As far as he could tell, the town of Evergreen seemed to be cursed. "I'll go check it out," he said, giving Wendy's hand a tight squeeze. To his surprise, she gasped and pulled her hand away from him. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I guess there's a bruise forming" she said, peering at her hand. She sounded surprised. "That man sure does have a tight grip."

"What man?" he asked, frowning.

"That Darlington fellow," she told him. "You know, the one who wants to build the casino. I ran into him today." She shuddered and looked away. "He's kind of a creep."

"What do you mean?" Van asked anxiously. "What did he do?"

"Nothing! Look, it's not important." Van opened his mouth to disagree, but Wendy forestalled him. "Can we talk about this later? There are more important things going on. I don't know what's going on, but it sounded bad. You'd better go . . ." she paused, then changed her wording: "Would you please go check it out?"

"All right, all right," he told her. He stood up and tried to shake away the last of the sleepiness clinging to him. Then he glanced down to meet her eyes. "You're going to tell me about this Darlington guy later," he said firmly, making it a statement rather than a request. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded. Good. No one could get away with hurting Wendy, not if he could help it.

He bolted out the door, moving from his usual amble to a run. If this was another armor attack, he was determined to capture one of the riders alive. The sooner they got to the bottom of this, the better, as far as he was concerned. He was sick of pointless patrolling night and day. He would much rather have spent his time with Wendy. There was something bothering her, and he had not yet managed to figure out what it was. It wasn't at all like her not to say what was on her mind. He had hoped to get a chance to talk to her tonight, but his own exhaustion had conspired against him. It was hard for a man to conduct a courtship when he was so being run so ragged that he fell asleep the moment he had a few spare minutes.

When he got to the park, he found plenty of pandemonium. People were screaming, crying, and running around like chickens with their heads cut off. What he didn't see was any sign of an armor attack . . . or, for that matter, any other kind of attack. There did seem to be a lot of smoke in the area, though. Maybe his first theory about the fireworks had been right after all? He slowed down and looked around. If this was some kind of pyrotechnic malfunction, the fire department could handle it. He could go back home and find out what was going on with this casino guy who was bothering Wendy.

Then he noticed that something was burning his lungs. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his throat of its sudden congestion, and found that he could hardly breathe. What the hell?

"Here," a muffled voice said. "Put this on." Van turned around and blinked at the bug-faced monstrosity behind him. Why was it wearing a gold star on its duster? he wondered. Then something clicked in his brain and he realized that he was looking at Sheriff Cooper in a gas mask. The sheriff was handing him a gas mask, too . . . which suddenly made sense, given how it was to draw a breath without coughing. Van put the mask on and began breathing more deeply.

"Thanks," he said. "What the hell is going on?"

"Gas bombs," the sheriff said succinctly. "Some kind of lung irritant. Someone just chucked a couple of gas bombs into the crowd."

"And no one saw who did it?"

"Of course not," the sheriff said bitterly. "It's not likely that we'd be lucky enough to get a break like that. It was a fireworks display, so of course, everyone was looking up at the sky. As far as we can tell, the attacker must have tossed the bombs out into the crowd during the grand finale. No one had eyes for anything but the fireworks."

"He's got good timing," Van said with a grunt, looking around the crowd. It looked like the gas was already starting to dissipate, but there were people struggling for breath everywhere. "You need helping getting people out of here?"

"I'd appreciate it, son," the sheriff said. "And keep your eyes open for anyone suspicious."

"Right," Van said, but he knew it was a lost cause. In the dark, in a crowd, the unknown attacker could have slipped away unseen . . . or he could be right here, blending in. Without knowing what to look for, neither Van nor the rest of the sheriff's department would ever be able to recognize him.

In the end there was little he could do except help carry the most badly afflicted people out of the way. At least this time, there was no road block preventing the ambulances from getting to and from the hospital, but with so many people afflicted, it took several hours to get everyone treated.

Van staggered back home—well, Wendy's home, since he had not yet earned the privilege of calling it his own home—in the wee hours of the morning. To his surprise, Wendy was still in the living room, sleeping soundly in an armchair. A book lay on the floor, as if it had slipped from her fingers.

He stood there a moment, just watching her. Most of the room was dark, but she had fallen asleep with the reading lamp on, and it cast a warm yellow glow over her face. Even in her sleep, she was beautiful, and there was some part of him that wanted to take her in his arms and wake her with a kiss . . . or a whole series of kisses. He would not do that, of course, but he reached forward with one hand to brush a strand of hair away from her face.

"Raaah!" Kameo said indignantly, just as Van's hand touched Wendy's cheek.

"Huh?" Van dropped his hand and looked over at the turtle in surprise. Kameo glared back at him, his round eyes uncharacteristically narrowed. "What's your problem?" Van asked defensively.

"Maaah," the turtle said, frowning at him. Then Wendy stirred, and both Van and the turtle looked back at her. She blinked, opened her eyes, and sat up.

"Oh, good, you're back!" she said, and smiled at him sleepily. Then her face fell. "So . . . what happened?" Van settled down on the couch to tell her about the gas bombing.

"Kind of funny if you think about it," he finished, and yawned. "I mean, what good did it do? Nothing was really damaged. No one was killed. Doctor what's-his-face was saying that he didn't think the gas was going to cause long-term problems for anyone. It was irritating, but that's it."

"That _is _odd," Wendy said quietly. "I wander what they were hoping to accomplish?" Van shrugged.

"If they're trying to chase people out of Evergreen, this would be a good way to do it," he said. "Otherwise I don't see the point." He yawned again, and leaned back on the couch, feeling the weight of the night's work rolling over him. Any minute now, he was going to crash. He could feel it. "Maybe they were just trying to cancel that dance," he said sleepily. "That's about all it achieved."

Wendy laughed softly, but it sounded to Van like a slightly bitter laugh. "Maybe someone just doesn't like square dancing," she agreed. Then she sighed. "I guess I didn't have to buy a new dress after all."

"You could wear it some other time," Van suggested sleepily. "I could take you out to dinner." The good Lord knew he had enough money in the bank by now that he didn't need to rely on her for food all the time. That was the only advantage there was to this awful job: for once, he wasn't broke.

"I'd like that," Wendy said. She yawned, too. "I should go to bed," she murmured.

"Good night, then," he replied, lying back down on the couch.

He was already half asleep when he heard Wendy murmur: "Good night, sweetheart. I love you," in reply. There was something that he wanted to say in response to that, but he was too tired to find the right words. He drifted off to sleep still trying to work it out.

* * *

><p>To Van's great surprise (and the sheriff's evident dismay), the mayor refused to cancel the scheduled Freedom Day dance. Van overheard some of the argument between the sheriff and the mayor, but the mayor's reasoning didn't make much sense to him. The mayor insisted that the gas bombs were a simple prank that had caused a great deal of pain and trouble, but no permanent damage. He also insisted that Van come to the dance to serve as extra security, instead of patrolling the streets, as Sheriff Cooper had wanted.<p>

Van agreed, thinking that at least this way he'd be able to keep an eye on Wendy. He wasn't surprised that she insisted on going to the dance, despite the incident at the firework display. He _was _surprised at how pleased she had been to learn that he would be there too. It wasn't even as if he were going to be spending the evening with her: he was going as security, not as her date. But when he pointed this out, she just shrugged and smiled. "That's all right," she had said cheerfully. "I still like having you around."

They could at least walk there together. Wendy had to work part of the dinner shift at the bistro that day, so he showed up at her house shortly before the dance was scheduled to begin, expecting to find her ready. Instead, there was no one in the room but Kameo. "Hey, where's Wendy?" Van asked.

"Errroooo," Kameo said, looking up at the ceiling. Sure enough, now that Van listened, he could hear footsteps from second floor.

"Ah," he said. "Still getting ready?" Kameo nodded. Then he frowned at Van. "What's wrong?"

"Arrruuu," the turtle replied.

"Say what?"

"Arrrr!"

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to say at all," Van said awkwardly. "Is this about Wendy?"

The turtle nodded.

"If you're worried about her, don't be. I'm going to be keeping an eye on her the whole time tonight."

But Kameo shook his head at that. "You're not worried about her?" Van asked, confused.

The turtle shook his head, then nodded, then moved its shell up and down in what might have been a shrug. This was making increasingly less sense to Van.

"So, you _are_ worried—?" he asked. This time, Kameo simply nodded. Van continued floundering through the conversation: "But you're not worried that there's going to be some kind of trouble at the dance?"

Another nod.

"Well, what are you worried about?"

"Raaah," Kameo said, and he pointed at Van with one forefoot.

"You're worried about ME?" Van asked, astounded. He got another nod in reply. "Why the hell would you worry about me?" Kameo looked back up at the ceiling. It sounded as if Wendy were singing to herself as she dressed. Van couldn't think of what would be worrisome about that, but Kameo looked about as unhappy as an enormous pink turtle could look.

"You're worried about me . . . and Wendy?" Van guessed at last.

The turtle nodded his head even more vigorously, as if to say, "yes, exactly."

"Well, there's nothing to worry about!" Kameo looked unconvinced. "You know I would never hurt her," Van said, trying to reassure the turtle. It didn't work. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Kameo narrowed his eyes at Van and made a sound suspiciously like a growl.

"And, you know," Van stammered, "my intentions are, uh, entirely honorable." Kameo's face immediately relaxed, the threatening look fading away. "Is _that_ you were worried about?" The turtle nodded.

"Well, you don't have to worry," Van said, increasingly feeling as if he were caught in another bizarre chelonian nightmare. This conversation couldn't really be happening, could it? "I mean, I'm still a . . . and we're not . . . I mean, I _wouldn't_, and . . . well, what I mean is, I'm going to marry her!"

"Maaah!"

"If that's all right with you," Van added hastily. "Is it?"

Kameo nodded, smiling at last, as if this was what he had been waiting for.

"Well then," Van said weakly. "Glad we had this conversation." He pulled slumped down on the couch and pulled his hat over his eyes. Had he really just said that? To a_ turtle_? He supposed it could have been worse, though. If Wendy's idiot brother had still been around, he would have had to ask _him_ for Wendy's hand in marriage. That was a conversation that wouldn't have gone well at all.

Van wasn't at all sure what to say to Kameo after that. It was, therefore, something of a relief to hear Wendy's rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. He and Kameo both turned to the staircase as she walked into the room. And then Van froze.

"Do I look all right?" Wendy asked anxiously.

"Ahh!" Kameo said encouragingly. Van just stared.

"Is something wrong?" Wendy asked. She looked down at the dress and tugged at the skirt, as if trying to correct the hang of the skirt. It didn't need to be adjusted. It was perfect. She was perfect. She was stunning, in fact.

"Ah . . . no, it's just . . ."

"Just what?" she asked.

He could hardly tell her what he was really thinking, so he frantically dug around in his mind for something else to say. "It's just that you need something to go with it!" he said triumphantly.

"Something to go with it?" Wendy repeated with a frown. "I have a shawl to cover my shoulders, if that's what you mean."

"No, not that. Something like this." He reached into the inner pocket of his swallowtail jacket and pulled out a small, flat package. It had been in his pocket for a year or two now and looked decidedly worse for the wear, but it had been well-wrapped to begin with and he was sure that the contents would be fine. "This is for you," he told Wendy, and handed it to her.

"What is it?" she asked, looking puzzled. She took the tiny package from him and stared at it.

"Open it and see," he said, still hiding his eyes under his hat, so that she couldn't see the tension in his expression.

"All right," she said, still wrinkling her brow in confusion. He watched anxiously as she began unwrapping the heavy brown paper that covered it. He hoped that she would like it. He'd certainly been waiting long enough for the opportunity to give it to her.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: I don't usually do notes, but I just wanted to say that Van's conversation with Kameo was one of the first scenes I came up with when I began plotting out this story. It may be supremely silly (and possibly a bit out of character for Kameo), but it was a <em>lot<em> of fun to write.

Just a few more chapters to go, folks! Tune in next time for more action and adventure! Are you ready?


	10. Chapter 10

Part Ten – Conversations

Wendy unwrapped the brown paper slowly, wanting to give herself a little time to guess what might be in the package. If it was something to go with her dress, it might be hair ribbons—but no, it seemed too heavy to be that. It was too small to be a pair of gloves . . . not that Van would every think to buy her formal gloves. But then, he wouldn't think to buy her hair ribbons, either. In fact, she couldn't imagine anything that he _would_ buy for her. He was hardly a flowers-and-chocolate kind of man.

Inside the brown paper was a flat, rectangular wooden box. It was about the same shape as a box designed to hold a deck of playing cards, but it was too small for that. It was made of light colored wood, with a triskelion made of curling leaves carved into the surface of the top of the box. "That's beautiful," Wendy commented, running a finger along the carving.

"That's just the box, dummy," Van said. "Open it up."

"Don't be so rude!" Wendy snapped back, but her heart wasn't in the scolding. She was too interested in the contents of the box. She gently lifted open the lid—and stared. "Why, it's just like Kameo!" she exclaimed.

Inside the velvet-lined back lay a simple necklace with an exquisite pendant. Someone had taken a large, flat, stone (surely that couldn't be an emerald, though? It must have been two or three carats), and ornamented it with a turtle's head, feet, and tail. The tail served as a loop for fine gold chain. Though the shell was green rather than pink, the expression on the face was just like the one Kameo wore when he was pleased about something. "Where are on earth did you find this?"

"I helped stop a jewelry robbery in River City a while ago," Van said. "They offered me anything I wanted, but what would I want with jewelry?" He paused, watching her underneath the brim of his hat. "But I saw that and it made me think of you, so I took it as payment. Do you like it?"

"I love it," Wendy said. "Thank you." She gently lifted the necklace out of the box, rested the box on the coffee table, and tried to put the necklace on. The tiny clasp in the box proved a problem, though. "Hey, can you help me with this?"

"Sure," Van said. He walked around the coffee table and stood behind her to fasten the necklace for her. He was so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Wendy would have thought that, after nearly two months of dating, she would have become used to Van's proximity, but that was not the case. Merely being this close to him was enough to start her heart beating a little more quickly. "There," Van said, releasing the necklace. Wendy gave the pendant a tug to make sure that it hung in place.

Then, to her surprise, Van leaned closer and brushed her neck lightly with his lips, just above her shoulder. His touch sent a shiver down her body, and she drew in a sharp breath. This was different from his usual kisses, and she wasn't sure how to respond.

"Let's get going," he suggested casually, as if he had not just set her heart pounding. "The sheriff'll want me there on time."

"All right, let's go," she agreed. She draped her shawl across her bare shoulders and took one brief glance in the mirror by the door. She could see Kameo watching as they left. Why was he frowning at Van like that? she wondered as she took Van's arm and stepped out the door.

* * *

><p>Wendy was used to going to dances without a date. She had not dated much in high school or after it, because she had seen little point in wasting time with men she was sure she wasn't interested in for the long term. It hadn't bothered her too much: as a teenager living on her own, working to make ends meet, her life had been busy enough and complicated enough without trying to fit in a boyfriend. But, naturally, a consequence of her lack of a love life had been that she was accustomed to going to parties, dances, and dinners with friends or on her own.<p>

Wendy had, therefore, been looking forward very much to walking into the ballroom at the community center with Van on her arm. The entrance was everything she had secretly hoped for: people had looked up, seen the tall armor rider in the jet black tuxedo, and stared. Some of them turned to each other and whispered. A few of Wendy's acquaintances caught her eye and smiled their approval.

Sheriff Cooper, who was standing near the door in a small group of people, nodded at Van and tipped his hat at Wendy. "I'd better go see what he wants," Van said abruptly. "You can sit here." He deposited her at one of the small, round tables that were scattered around the edges of the dance floor, then left. She had known that this would happen, Wendy reminded herself. He was here to work. And it wasn't as if there weren't plenty of her people she knew already chatting in clusters around the ballroom. Karen wasn't there yet, but Martine and her younger sister were laughing at something in one corner of the room. Wendy joined them in time to catch Martine doing a mean-spirited impression of the mayor.

The first half of the dance was as fun as it always was. Wendy joined in on the square dances, reels, and barn dances, but she sat out the partnered dances. One advantage of having shown up with Van was that fewer men tried to convince her to waltz or two-step. She generally turned down such requests as politely as possible, but it was a relief not to have to deal with so many of them. Van was moving around the room, keep an eye on things per the sheriff's request, but he took the time to pause beside Wendy periodically to exchange a word or two of conversation, a smile, or just a glance. Life was good.

Then, while Wendy was sitting out a dance and sipping punch, Karen leaned across the table and whispered: "Isn't that Mr. Smarmy?"

"Mr. Who?"

"You know, the casino guy. The one who keeps visiting the mayor after hours."

"How on earth do you know that?" Wendy demanded.

"My brother works in city hall," Karen explained. Of course. Apparently the whole family was politically engaged. Wendy almost opened her mouth to ask why Karen was doing something as mundane as serving as a waitress, when clearly, she ought to be working as a legal clerk or aide to the mayor. But Karen didn't give her a chance to ask; instead, she continued "Don't be too obvious about looking, but when you get a chance, turn your head to the left and look over your shoulder. He's standing near the punch bowl, talking to Mark Tannenbock."

"Who?"

"One of the town council members in the mayor's pocket . . . look, that's not important. What's important is that the man keeps leering at you."

"Really?" Wendy whispered cringing. "He was acting a little odd the last time I saw him." And she told Karen about encountering him at the fireworks display the night before.

"Too bad he didn't get gassed so badly that he ended up in the hospital," Karen grumbled.

"I don't see how he could have avoided it," Wendy said. "I left just a few minutes before the attack. Unless he left at the same time I did, he must have still been there."

"Here's hoping he's still coughing from the exposure, then," Karen said. "Why does he keep harassing you?"

"I don't know!" Wendy hissed, irritated. Why_ did_ Darlington keep bothering her? It should have been abundantly clear by now that his attention was unwanted. If it was true that he wanted her to work in his casino . . .well, there were other people who could have done that as well as she could. For that matter, there were other girls in Evergreen who were prettier than Wendy. There was no reason for him to single her out. But Karen was right: he did keep glancing in her direction.

She did her best to avoid Darlington during the rest of the evening. She didn't even want to look his way if she could avoid it. But as she was returning an empty cup of punch, he caught her by the wrist. "Miss Garret," he said smoothly. "My, but you are a confection tonight."

"Please let go of me, Mr. Darlington," she said calmly.

"I didn't mean to offend," he said. He released her wrist, but he stepped smoothly in front of her, blocking her route and forcing her to step back and to the side. Then he took the empty glass from her hand and handed it to a passing waiter. "I wondered if I might solicit the favor of a dance with you, Miss Garret."

"I'm very sorry, but . . ."

"I can see that your escort is here on duty tonight," Darlington continued. He reached out and, to Wendy's great horror, stroked her cheek lightly with one finger. "It would be a shame to allow such an exquisite beauty to stand out all of the dances—"

"I haven't been standing out all of them," Wendy said. She took a step backward, and then realized that she was trapped. He had somehow maneuvered them into a corner, with a refreshment table at her back, a wall on one side, and himself in front. It was artfully done.

"You've been dancing the reels and square dances, yes," Darlington said, "But I have yet to see you waltz. You do waltz, do you not?"

"Not normally, no," Wendy said. He could ask anyone he liked, and they would all back her up. She occasionally danced with a male friend or coworker, true, but Darlington was no friend of hers. There wasn't the slightest chance that she would dance with him.

"But it's easy enough to learn. Won't you have a little mercy on me, Miss Garret? I have been admiring you all evening, and I simply can't let this opportunity pass me by—"

"I'm sorry, but the next dance is already taken," Wendy lied. Then, hoping that no one was watching, she grabbed her skirt in one hand, put her other hand on the corner of the dessert table, and vaulted neatly over the corner of the table to make her escape. She hurried away, not really looking where she was going, until she bumped into someone who reached out a familiar black glove to steady her.

"What the hell was that about?" She looked up to see Van, who had been making his rounds through the room. "Who was that guy?" he demanded.

"Not so loud," Wendy scolded as she took Van's arm, immensely relieved that she had shown up before Darlington could follow. "He'll hear you."

"Let him hear me," Van said. "I don't care what he thinks. I don't like the way he's been looking at you. Who is he?"

"That was that Darlington fellow I was telling you about," she whispered. "Is he still looking at me?"

"Yeah. You want me to punch him for you?"

"No, I do _not_," Wendy insisted. "There's no need to make a ruckus here. But if you want to help me out, could you please dance the next dance with me?"

"Can I _what_?" Van stared at her as if he thought she were insane. It wasn't an encouraging response, but Wendy hastened to explain.

"I told Darlington that I couldn't dance with him because the next dance was taken. If he sees me dancing with you, he'll think I was telling the truth."

"It'd be easier if you just let me punch him," Van grumbled. Wendy sighed and hung her head. Then, to her surprise, he said "Whatever."

"It's a waltz," Wendy explained to him as they stepped out on the dance floor. "That means it's a three step dance. You have to put your arm—" To her surprise, Van interrupted her.

"I know how to waltz," he told her.

"You do?" she asked, startled. Rather than answering her with words, he placed one arm around her waist, and took her right hand in left. As the music began, he began leading. "When did you learn to dance?" Wendy asked, after a few steps had proven that he did know what he was doing.

"When I was engaged to Elena," he said simply. "We were going to have dancing after the wedding."

"Oh," Wendy said. She dropped her eyes, feeling embarrassed. She ought to have known better than to ask. Of course, he would have danced with Elena.

They danced in silence for several steps. Then, feeling that she ought to break the silence, she said: "I'm sorry I brought that up."

"Brought what up?"

"You know. Elena." She kept her eyes down, not sure that she wanted to see his expression. There was another awkward pause.

"It's all right," he said at last. "I don't mind talking about her to you." They turned to follow the curve of the room, and he added: "It was a long time ago. Must be eight or nine years, I guess."

"Yeah," Wendy agreed. She knew from her own experience, though, that time didn't really heal all wounds. There were nights when she still woke up with nightmares of her final confrontation with Michael.

"The truth is, I haven't danced with anyone since she died," Van said, speaking quietly.

"Does it bother you to dance with me?" Wendy asked shyly, looking up.

"What?" He stared down at her, his mouth open slightly in surprise. "How could it bother me?" Wendy opened her own mouth to explain what she had meant; then paused, not sure how to put it in words. She was afraid that it might seem that she was taking Elena's place. She was afraid that he might resent her for that. But she was even more afraid that she never _could_ take Elena's place; that he would never be able to love her as he had loved Elena. She wanted him to reassure her that this wasn't true, but she was afraid to ask.

So she simply said: "I thought it might remind you of her," she said. "I mean, since she's the last woman you danced with."

"No, it's different," he told her. "You're different."

"Oh," Wendy said. She couldn't tell what he meant, exactly, but she wasn't sure whether she wanted him to explain. It seemed as if all of her worst fears were going to be confirmed.

For once, she didn't have to prompt him to speak. On his own, he elaborated: "You're bossier than Elena was," he explained.

"VAN!" Wendy gasped. She tried to keep her volume down, but she couldn't keep the irritation out of her voice.

"Oh, and you also have a more of a temper," he continued. Wendy blushed furiously.

"Van!" she hissed, "are you trying to insult me?"

"And you're shorter," he finished.

"Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be taller!" Wendy snapped. She was a little shorter than average height, but only a_ very_ little. It was just because Van himself was so insanely tall that she seemed short. "I guess you should find someone closer to your own height," she hissed. "That would make dancing easier, wouldn't it?"

"Don't be stupid," Van told her. "I wouldn't want to dance with anyone else." She felt his grip on her hand tighten. "I'm just saying, you're different from Elena, that's all."

"I know that," Wendy said miserably, feeling tears prickle at her eyes. He had adored Elena, and she was no Elena. She knew that. She had always known it. He was saying that he would never love her the way he loved Elena. All of this time that they had spent together, then . . . did it mean nothing? Was he just tired of being lonely? All of those kisses, those glances, and those embraces. . . was that just the natural appetite of a man hungry for a woman, with nothing more behind it? Perhaps he found her company better than other women's, but that didn't mean that he loved her.

The more she thought about, the more strongly Wendy believed that this was the worst time she'd ever had at a dance –including that ill-fated date with Robert Barton.

"So, what I mean is, I love you differently." Van spoke softly and hesitantly, as if this were hard for him to say. Wendy kept her head down, listening and trying not to interrupt. He had caught her attention with one word. Had she heard him right? "Because you're a different woman. And I'm different from who I was then . . . and . . . anyway, what's that saying about comparing fruit?"

"You mean, 'It's like comparing apples and oranges?'" Wendy suggested tentatively.

"Right. It's not like apples are better than oranges. They're just different. You can't judge one against the other. How I feel about you. . . how I feel about Elena . . . it's apples and oranges."

"I see," Wendy said. She thought about asking more, but hesitated, not sure if she wanted to know all of the truth. After all, most people, if forced to choose between an apple and orange, _did_ have a preference.

In the end, her chance to speak was taken away. The waltz ended, and Van released her. "There's something I have to do," he said abruptly, and just like that, he was gone. Typical Van, Wendy thought, but she wasn't angry. He had left her with plenty to think about.

There it was, the answer to one of the questions she had been afraid to ask: yes, he did love her. Maybe it wasn't the same way that he had loved Elena, but he loved her. She could live with that.


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11 – Darlington

On her way back to the table, Wendy saw a cluster of people talking together with anxious faces. Among them were Karen, Jean-Jacques, and Martine. Jean-Jacques was gesticulating wildly. Martine had a hand over her mouth and was shaking her head. Karen simply looked angry. "What's going on?" Wendy asked.

"Another of these wretched burglaries," Jean-Jacques explained. "Nothing is safe anymore!" He waved his hands in the air, then spied one of the waiters carrying a tray incorrectly, and stormed off to solve the problem.

"Who was it this time?" Wendy asked.

"It was poor Mrs. Whitlock," Martine said. "And this time, they killed her."

"Really?" Were the attacks escalating in intensity, then? The previous burglaries had resulted in personal injury, but nothing life-threatening, not as far as Wendy could recall. "That's terrible." Wendy paused. "Wait—do you mean Sarah Whitlock, the librarian?" she asked. She had fond memories of Old Mrs. Whitlock. The library had been one of Wendy's favorite places when she was a child. She had always loved to read, but money for books had sometimes been in short supply after her parents died.

"No, it was Karen Whitlock, her daughter-in-law. She ran that flower shop in the mall, and she was on the town council."

"Oh, right. I didn't really know her, but that's still sad." Why, then, did her name sound familiar? Wendy wondered. She turned to Karen. "Weren't you telling me something about her awhile back?"

"Maybe when we were talking about Mr. Smarmy's casino plan?" Karen suggested. "Karen Whitlock was one of the people opposing it, along with my uncle, Tom Velasquez, and Sherry Crawford." Wendy frowned. She had heard something about Sherry Crawford, too, hadn't she? Oh, right—she had left town to live with her daughter.

"Kind of funny how many of those people are out of commission right now," she said. "Your uncle is still homebound, isn't he?"

"He is, and it's not funny at all," Karen said. "The mayor's pushing to hold the vote in a couple of days, despite the fact that so many members are missing."

"Well, that's awfully convenient for Darlington," Wendy said, "having all his opposition out of the way when the council decides!" Then she and Karen stared at each other, both apparently thinking the same thing at the same time.

"What?" Martine asked, looking from face to face. "You don't really think he had anything to do with these attacks, do you? I mean, he wouldn't."

"Wouldn't he?" Karen asked.

"He might," Wendy said. "He doesn't take no for an answer." She considered this. What they were suggesting seemed so absurd. What businessman would go to such lengths just to get a new project approved? And yet . . . "The first burglaries happened after he came to town, didn't they?"

"I think so," Karen said. She paused, and frowned, wrinkling her brow. "I'm not sure, though. When the first one occurred, it didn't seem like anything important, you know? No one knew then that it was going to be a crime spree. I might not have noticed when people began talking about it."

"We could ask the sheriff," Wendy suggested, "or one of the deputies."

"Already gone," Karen said succinctly. "I think your Van is the only one here from the sheriff's department. Would he know?"

"I doubt that he'd remember the date of the first burglary," Wendy said. He was almost as bad with dates as he was names. "I can ask him, though." But when she looked around the ballroom, he was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?

* * *

><p>Van had seen Darlington stepping out of the dance hall, into the hallway that led to the restrooms. Van followed him, determined to warn him away from Wendy. He wasn't going to stand by and allow anyone to treat Wendy disrespectfully.<p>

He had expected to corner Darlington in the men's room, but the room was empty. He was about to step back into the hallway when he caught the sound of men's voices coming from a storage closet off the hallway.

". . . . tonight!" someone was saying. "Before the people get home. As little loss of life as possible . . ." Van froze, frowning. Didn't he recognize that voice? Wasn't that the mayor? The door to the closet opened, and Van quickly stepped back behind the door of the men's room. One set of footsteps went past, and then there was the sound of someone pacing in hallway. Van swung open the door, stepped out, and said "Good Evening!" with a heartiness that was not in the least bit real.

Darlington turned around, looking startled. Good. Van had no desire to confront the mayor, but he did mean to have words with Darlington.

"Ah, Van, is it?" Darlington said. He smiled, showing a lot of teeth. And, Van noticed, he slipped his hand into his coat, as if reaching for a gun or a knife. Van rested his own hand on his sword hilt.

"That's right," he said. "They call me Van of the Dawn."

"Well, it's nice to see that the town is so well protected," the businessman said. "I'm sure we're all much safer with a renowned armor rider like you on hand. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."

"Sorry," Van said, "but there's something we need to discuss." He pushed Darlington up against the wall, holding him with just enough force to let him realize that he was in earnest. Darlington looked shocked at first, but then he forced his face into a smile. This one didn't show quite so many teeth.

"And what would that be?" he asked.

"You need to stay the hell away from Wendy," Van said, taking the direct approach.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've seen the way you look at her. I don't like it."

"Don't want me poaching on your territory, do you?" Darlington said, suddenly speaking in a confidential voice, as if they were best buddies. "I understand completely. Believe me, I don't like sharing my women, either. I'll back off for now, if you like."

"You damn well better," Van said. He stepped back, letting go of Darlington.

He wasn't expecting the man to keep talking. "Still, everyone knows that you're just a drifter. Never hang your hat in one place for very long, do you? Once this job is over, you'll be gone . . . and there'll be a vacancy in your woman's bed again."

"Excuse me?" Van growled, tensing up.

"Tell me something—man to man—just because I've been wondering: is her loving as spicy as her cooking?"

Van punched Darlington in the stomach by way of the answer. "Shut up, you son of a bitch," he hissed. "Don't talk about things you don't understand." Darlington gasped as he collapsed. The look on his face suggested that he had not expected Van to strike him. But he hauled himself back up with surprising speed, and pulled his gun out of his suit. Van had his sword already drawn before the gun could be pointed at him, but in the narrow hallway, there was little room to maneuver. He might not be able to block a bullet at such close range.

"I think you're the one who doesn't understand," Darlington said to Van. "And you'll regret this." He turned and backed away, still aiming his revolver at Van. "You're going to regret ever coming to this town."

"I don't think I'll be the one with the regrets," Van retorted. He watched the other man exit. He put his sword away, and punched the wall, hard. He left a crack in the plaster, and he knew that at some point that unnecessary damage to city property might bother him, but right then he didn't care.

He was still fuming when he strode back into the ballroom, and he was not in the best of humors when Wendy greeted him by asking "Van! Where WERE you?"

"Taking care of something," he said shortly. Then he paused to look at her. Something had upset her, he thought. "You all right? That Darlington guy hasn't been here, has he?" Wendy exchanged a sidelong glance with her brown-haired friend, whatever her name was. (Sharon? Tarren? Erin?)

"No. Why do you ask?" Wendy wanted to know. Van opened his mouth to tell her, then remembered at the lost moment that she hadn't wanted him to "cause a ruckus" by fighting with Darlington. She probably wasn't going to be happy if he told her that he had punched the man after all.

"No reason. I just saw him back in the hallway talking to the mayor," he said. It was perfectly true. It just wasn't the whole truth. He was surprised, though, when Wendy and her friend exchanged another significant look.

"Why would he be talking to the mayor?" Wendy asked. "You don't think . . ."

"His honor the mayor HAS been supporting the casino plan this whole time," the other girl said.

"But still, he's the mayor." Wendy spoke anxiously, twisting her necklace with one hand. "It's his job to look after the town. He wouldn't do a thing like that, would he?"

"He might."

"Do what?" Van asked, looking from one girl to another. They both started talking at once, then, about Darlington and some plan to build a casino. Van didn't understand any of it.

Finally, Wendy threw up her hands in despair and said: "We think Darlington is the one behind the burglaries and attacks."

"What? Why? Why would he do that?" Van asked.

"To get the council members out of the way so that his proposal for a casino would be accepted," Wendy said.

"But that only accounts for some of the attacks. The gas attack last night doesn't make any sense." Van thought that what's-her-name had a good point. The gas attack hadn't been targeting town council members, and it hadn't put anyone out of commission for very long. It was hard to see what it could have accomplished.

"None of it makes any sense at all," said the third girl, the dark-haired one who had been quiet during most of the conversation. "What about the armor attack? Why would he trash the town if he wanted to buy land here?" Wendy's eyes widened, as if she had just realized something.

"Maybe he wants people to leave," she said. "He drove out a lot of businesses from Main Street and the town square, didn't he? Not to mention the damage done to the mall. He's planning on including a restaurant in his casino—"

"Plus a hotel, with a gift shop, and a theater," said the brown-haired girl. "That's what the plans call for. All of which might have competed with existing businesses."

"So," Van said, slowly grasping the idea, "you're saying he was driving out the competition?" It was a pretty violent way of doing it, but it was probably effective.

"Maybe," Wendy said. "That still doesn't explain the gas attack, though. Not unless he really was just trying to scare people out of town. But why would he want to do that?"

"Because then he could buy up their property or snap up their leases," the brown-haired girl said. "Property values have plummeted ever since that first armor attack."

"So he can snatch up real estate at bargain prices, then either use it for his own businesses or sell it back when the prices rise again," Wendy said. "If the casino did draw in more tourists, he could make a killing when the real estate prices go up."

"And if he has any investors, they could make huge profits too," the third girl said. "I guess that_ does_ make some sense."

This was starting to get complicated again, but Van didn't care. He had heard enough to know what he needed to do. "Whatever he's doing," he said, "I'd better go catch him and bring him in for questioning."

"Right, and we'd better go look for the sheriff and tell him what's been going on," Wendy said. Van opened his mouth to protest, but he thought better of it. He would much rather have her go straight home, but he had already learned the hard way that she wasn't likely to listen to such advice. And the truth was, in this case, she was right. The sheriff did need to know what she knew, and as far as Van could tell, Wendy and her friends were the only ones who understood the whole plot. (At least, he certainly didn't grasp all of it.) She'd been taking care of herself without him for some half-dozen years, Van reminded himself. She would be fine without him now.

So he contented himself with just saying "Stay safe!" as he left the community center. He had a momentary qualm about the danger of leaving so many people unguarded (and where HAD Sheriff Cooper gone, anyway? The plan had never been for Van to guard the place alone), but right now, catching Darlington was the most urgent problem.

Besides, if Van were the one to catch Darlington, surely no one would complain if he handled him just a little roughly? Van smiled grimly at the thought.


	12. Chapter 12

Part Twelve – Tripods and Threats

Van set off on foot in search of Darlington, but he was having no luck. If the businessman was still lurking around town square, he was nowhere in sight. In fact, nothing worth noting was in sight. It was a peaceful night, with a cool breeze rustling the trees and scattering a few leaves across the square. The smell of the air and the nip in the breeze suggested that autumn was coming around the corner faster than the scorching heat earlier in the day might have made one think. Van drew a deep breath of that crisp air and paused to look around. Where could Darlington be?

He was about to make another round investigating the nooks and crannies of the town square when a distant sound caught his attention. He cocked his head and listened for a moment, frowning. Was that what he thought it was? It sure sounded like armor. He couldn't be sure, but he was sure enough to decide to summon Dann.

Van hooked his finger through the ring on his hat, swung the hat around, then used his sword to call his armor down. He brought it down right in the middle of the park at the center of town square, landing it neatly between a gazebo and the bandstand. It was a nice, clean landing. He hoped it boded well for a good, clean fight to follow.

It had been a couple of days since he'd ridden his armor, and felt good to be back in the cockpit. Dann was taller than some of the buildings surrounding the town square, and from that height, Van could see over the lower rooftops to do a quick scan of his surroundings. Everything looked peaceful to the south, the east, and the west, but he could see a pillar of smoke rising from somewhere in the north. That wasn't a good sign. He headed north, ducking the occasional power line as he wove in and out of narrow neighborhood streets.

Sure enough, the tripod armor riders were back, and in greater number. This time there were five of them. They were smashing buildings quickly, thoroughly, and randomly. They had already demolished one residential street and were working on another one. Judging from the smoke in the air, they must also have been starting fires.

It looked like more of that random, senseless property damage they'd done in the previous attack—or was it senseless? If the armor riders were working for Darlington, this would seem to bear out Wendy and what's-her-name's theory that they were trying to drive people out of Evergreen. Van was willing to bet that at least some of the property owners would rather sell their homes and leave than rebuild. Few people would want to stay in a city under constant siege.

Someone was going to have to put a stop to this. Van shouted out a battle cry, and plunged towards the nearest tripod. Somehow, in the dark and the smoke, the tripod riders hadn't noticed that Van was there at all. They couldn't miss him once he slashed the legs out from under the first tripod. Gotta keep 'em alive for questioning, he reminded himself. Well, he would try.

The first tripod went down easily, because the rider hadn't been expecting an attack from anyone. The second one saw Van coming and fired a barrage of bullets. Van spun Dann's sword to deflect the bullets, but a few of them still hit the armor. That was all right, though. It was minor damage, and Dann would heal. Van finally dispatched the second armor by tripping it, then smashing through the cockpit with one clenched fist. He pulled the rider out and tossed him aside none-too-gently. That one, at least, would still be alive, but he couldn't take him down to the station now. There were still three tripods to go.

But where had they gone? Van peered through his viewing screen, but he couldn't see any of the remaining tripods. Had they gotten away AGAIN? Damn, these things were faster than they looked.

As he was looking around for any sign of the tripod, Van spied someone on the roof of one of the few buildings left standing on this street. He would have missed the man entirely, if not for the distinctive white suit that he wore. As soon as the man saw Dann's red eyes turn towards him, he began running, but Van was faster. He sprang towards the house and snatched the man up with one armored fist, just as he about to spring from the roof to a tree.

As he had hoped, it was Darlington. "Gotcha," Van said, smiling smugly. Darlington kicked and wriggled and fought, but could not get away from Dann's firm grip. "I told you that you'd regret coming to this town," Van said smugly. "Now, let's go find the sheriff. We've got some questions for you."

* * *

><p>It had taken Wendy and Karen a little time to hunt down Sheriff Cooper, and it took even longer to explain the situation to him. He was initially skeptical—particularly about the possibility that the mayor might be involved in any plot that involved putting citizen's lives in danger—but he started to listen when Wendy described her encounter with Darlington during the fireworks display, just before the gas attack.<p>

"I saw him there myself," the sheriff said. He was sitting on a fire hydrant outside the late Mrs. Whitlock's house, rubbing his back as if it pained him. There were bags under his eyes, and the lines on his weathered face looked deeper than ever. "He was wearing a gas mask. Thought it was funny at the time."

"Guess that would explain why he wasn't still coughing today," Karen said smugly. "And how could he have had a gas mask? No one else did, did they?"

"The ambulance crew had a couple they passed out to service personnel," the sheriff said. "That's where I got mine. He claimed that was where he got his. But no other civilians were given gas masks. Like I said, I thought it was a little funny at the time, but I didn't think much of it. Had other things on my mind, y'know?" He paused, and coughed. "I got my gas mask pretty quickly, but I still got my lungs scorched a little," he explained. "Most of us took a little damage. Sure is puzzling how that Darlington was able to get his on before the gas hit."

"Not all that surprising if he knew that it was coming, and was prepared," Wendy pointed out.

"Was he carrying anything when you saw him?" the sheriff wanted to know.

Wendy looked down, thinking about it. Had he been carrying anything? It had been dark when she had seen him. He had had nothing in his right hand; she knew that, because he had taken her by the hand. But . . . "I think he did have some kind of bag in his left hand," she said. "A briefcase or attaché case. Something like that. I didn't get a good look."

"Guess he could've had a gas mask in there," the sheriff said thoughtfully. "Heck, he could've had the gas grenades in there, for all I know. They weren't that large. They'd be easy to carry. No one would question a businessman with a briefcase." The sheriff stood up and adjusted his belt, shifting the hang of his revolver the merest fraction. "Well, ladies, I have to admit, this does sound suspicious. We'll need to question Mr. Darlington for sure. You say Van is already looking for him?"

"Yes," Wendy said, "He left right after we figured this all out. That does mean that the people at the dance aren't protected." This had been bothering her for some time. The sheriff didn't seem to be too worried, though. He summoned a nearby deputy with a snap of his fingers, and ordered the man to go guard the community center. Then he turned back to Wendy and Karen.

"Listen, young ladies, I need both of you to stay where I can find you easily. You can come back to the station with me, or you can go back to the dance, or you can go home, but I need to know where you are in case I have to question you again." Wendy and Karen exchanged looks.

"I might as well go back to the dance," Karen said. "I promised Thomas that I'd dance with him, and I never got the chance." Wendy thought about following her friend, then decided that she'd had enough festivity for one night. Besides, it wouldn't be much fun to her if Van wasn't there.

"I'll be at my house," she told the sheriff. "Tomorrow is one of my days off, so I'll probably there all day tomorrow, too, if you need me." He nodded.

"I'd keep your gun handy, Miss Garret, if I were you," Sheriff Cooper told her. "At least until your . . . intended . . . gets back." Wendy opened her mouth to say that Van wasn't her intended (not officially, anyway), then shut it and just nodded instead. Van had been living at her house for two months now. That must surely look to outsiders like something more than it really meant. Perhaps it was better to let people assume that they were engaged.

So Wendy and Karen went separate ways. Wendy had an uneventful walk back to her house. She had just reached the door when she heard a distant crashing. Armor? Maybe those tripods again? She paused and looked back over her shoulder, but could see nothing. The action, whatever it might be, was too far away for her to tell what was going. Well, there would have been nothing she could have done about it even if she COULD tell what was happening. She had promised Van that she would try to stay safe, and she had promised the sheriff that she would be home all even. Tonight was not the night for heroics.

Instead, she settled down in the living room with a book and tried to read. It was hard, though, to know that things might be happening out there in the town. If Van was looking for Darlington, who would be fighting the tripods? And, on the other hand, if Van tried to fight the tripods, would Darlington get away? Darlington probably didn't realize that anyone was on to him, Wendy reminded herself. He had stayed in town after the earlier attacks, so there was no reason to assume that he would leave now. In any case, it was all out of Wendy's hands now. She had done all that she could in telling the sheriff of her suspicions of Darlington. All she could do now was wait.

Try as she might, though, she simply could not concentrate on her novel. She finally put it aside and went in the kitchen to do some baking instead. She had some cinnamon roll dough set aside already for next morning's breakfast. She had intended to bake the rolls the next morning, but she decided to do it now. At least that way she would have a late night snack on hand. When Van did come back, he would probably be hungry. It would be nice to have something waiting for him.

Wendy was humming as she put the first pan of cinnamon rolls in the oven. She was baking far more of them than she and Van could eat, because she planned to put some of them in baskets and deliver them to Mrs. Whitlock's relatives tomorrow. It was the least she could do. Even if they caught Darlington, it would not bring back Mrs. Whitlock . . . nor Sarah Jane Parker, who would never get the chance to develop her own style of cooking. Wendy quit humming as she mourned her lost assistant for a few moments. It was a bitter reminder that no matter what happened, Evergreen would never be the same as it had been before the attacks. The town would bounce back, no doubt: it always did. But there would be some people who would never return.

These melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Kameo, who uttered a startled "Roo?" from the living room.

"What is it, Kameo?" Wendy asked.

"Raah," he said, sounding uncertain. Wendy turned the knob to set the oven timer, then stepped out of the kitchen to see what was going on. She got there just in time to see something come crashing through the window.

"What on earth?" she gasped.

"ARRRRRR!" Kameo cried angrily, lunging towards the door. He turned to look at the broken window, then pointed urgently to her gun, still resting on the coffee table.

"Right," Wendy said. She took the gun, checked to make sure it was loaded, then faced the door. Anyone who was breaking into her home was going to get a very unpleasant surprise indeed.

* * *

><p>Van had taken Darlington straight to sheriff's department. Luckily, Cooper was in, and he made short work of arresting Darlington and putting him behind bars. The sheriff's initial attempt at interrogation, however, was unsuccessful. Darlington was unwilling to talk. He insisted that he wouldn't say a word without an attorney present. Not just any attorney, either, but his own personal attorney from White Rock.<p>

"I could make him talk," Van told the sheriff, resting his hand on his sword hilt to indicate what he meant.

"We'll have none of that," the sheriff snapped. "We're going to do things the legal way here."

"Huh," Van grunted, disappointed. He had hoped to have the chance to pay Darlington back a little bit more, and so far, he'd been disappointed.

"Quite the buccaneer, aren't you?" Darlington sneered at him from the drunk tank, which he was sharing with a couple of party-goers who'd had too much punch at the Freedom Day dance. His dignity couldn't help but seem a little impaired in such company; perhaps that was what was making him testy. "Odd, that, because to see your tuxedo, one might have imagined you to be a gentleman."

Van ignored him, and turned back to the sheriff, intending to ask whether he was needed any more that night. There were still those armor riders to worry about, but they would most likely have fled by now. Van was hoping that he could get leave things to the regular deputies and get back home to Wendy.

Darlington refused to be ignored, though. He changed tactics in his insulting. "You know, Van of the Dawn, I've heard the oddest things about you. They say you can't hold a drop of liquor. They also say that you never go out of your way to help people unless you absolutely have to. But the oddest thing of all is that they say that one of your nicknames is Van the Virgin."

"That's none of your business," Van snapped, finally glancing over at the cell. That was his mistake. Darlington sneered back at him.

"It's obvious that you do indeed enjoy the company of the ladies," he said, sounding his most unctuous. "And that one you're keeping company with now, my, she is _delicious_, isn't she?"

"Pay him no mind," the sheriff murmured to Van. "He's just trying to rattle you."

Darlington kept talking, as if the sheriff weren't there. "I tried to take her for myself, you know. It would have been a coup to take her away from the Café Evergreen, too, and put her some place where her abilities would be more appreciated. A woman who's as lovely as she is talented . . . we always have uses for those in the hospitality industry."

"Wendy would never work for you," Van said shortly. He was certain of that. "And stop talking about her that way." He couldn't stand this man at all. He turned back to the sheriff, preparing to ask what he should do next, when Darlington said the words that made his heart skip a beat.

"It's a shame that I'll never get my hands on her now, but at least I have the comfort of knowing that you can't have her anymore, either."

"What did you just say?" Van demanded. He charged up to the jail cell and grabbed Darlington by the collar of his suit. The sheriff jumped to his feet, looking from one man to another anxiously, as if trying to tell how best to intervene. "What did you do to Wendy?"

"Hold on there, son," the sheriff said. "Don't you believe a word he says. Your Wendy is safe at home by now." Van wasn't listening, though. He was still focused on the slimeball in his grasp.

"_I_ didn't do anything to your Wendy," Darlington replied. "Why, you know where I've been the last half hour, because you've been with me the whole time. But think about this, boy: while you're in here talking to me, who's looking after your woman? Who's to stop those armor riders you've been fighting from targeting her house? What a shame it would be if she were there when they burned the place down."

"You BASTARD!" Van roared. He reached through the bars of the jail cell and punched Darlington again, this time in the face. Then he turned around and raced out of the room, ignoring the sheriff's demand for him to stop and think about things first. There was no time to think. He had to protect Wendy. He had lost the love of his life once. He didn't think he could survive if that happened again.


	13. Chapter 13

Part Thirteen – Gun, Sword, and Cast-Iron Skillet

When the living room door flew open, Kameo lunged towards the intruder. All that Wendy saw of the assailant was that he was tall, bulky, and sported a leather jacket. Kameo knocked him down and proceeded to berate him at the top of his turtle lungs, but that left the door wide open, and a second thug came storming in, brandishing a gun.

"Stop," Wendy said, "or I'll shoot." She pointed her gun at him and put a finger on the trigger. The intruder just laughed.

"A pretty little thing like you, shoot me? I don't think so. I bet you've never even fired that gun."

"You're wrong about that," Wendy said grimly as she pulled the trigger. She had practiced her marksmanship quite a bit since coming back to Evergreen, and her aim was pretty good. Her bullet hit the thug squarely in the abdomen, knocking him right over. He curled up in a ball, gripping his abdomen and moaning in pain. Wendy figured that if he survived, he would know better than to ever again underestimate a woman just because she was young and attractive.

Wendy could spare no more than a second of worry about whether the attacker would die from his wound. It was clear that she had other things to worry about: Kameo was having a hard time with man he had pinned on the floor. The man was pounding at Kameo's face with the butt of his gun, while his other hand was wielding a long, wicked-looking knife.

"Drop your weapons!" Wendy cried, pointing her gun at him. The man stared at her, then glanced at his wounded companion. He immediately dropped both the gun and the knife and held his hands in the air in a placating gesture.

"It's cool, right?" he said. "I'll get out of here. Just let me take Marco there with me. We'll leave quietly and just forget about this, right?"

"I don't think so," Wendy said. She hadn't lowered her own weapon, though her trigger finger had relaxed a little. "I'm going to have to take you to the sheriff." It was going to be a busy night for Sheriff Cooper. Maybe she should bring some of those cinnamon rolls to the sheriff's office? But Wendy's mind boggled at the problem of how to carry baked goods while also keeping two criminals in custody. One thing at a time, she told herself. It wasn't her job to keep the entire sheriff's department fed. "Let him up, Kameo," she directed. "I'll have to take him in somehow."

"You can't let Marco bleed to death," the thug pointed out. He had a point, though Wendy was unwilling to tell him that. How WAS this going to work, given the wounded man who needed help? "Just let us go," the man suggested again as he got to his feet. "We won't cause any trouble, honest. We'll get straight out of town and we won't come back. No one wants to raid a town protected by Van of a Thousand Conquests, anyway."

"I already told you, I can't let you go," Wendy snapped. "You can help carry your friend there to the emergency room," she told him. "But we'd better get moving."

"All right, all right," the man said. Then, to her surprise, he whistled.

"What are you doing?" she started to ask, but she got her answer when a giant metal limb came smashing through the one remaining window in the living room. She gasped and turned around to get a better look. It proved to be a nearly-fatal mistake: in that moment, when her back was turned, the thug charged at her. He knocked her to the ground and tried to wrestle her gun away from her. In the fight, Wendy's revolver went skidding across the floor. It disappeared under the couch. Wendy stared at it despairingly for a moment, then gasped as she felt a strong hand on her throat.

"Gotcha now, you little bitch," the man said. But he spoke too soon. Kameo grasped the back of his jacket and hauled him away from Wendy, growling his displeasure. Wendy rolled away as quickly as she could, got to her feet, and bolted in the direction of the kitchen. She hated to waste her good knives on something like this, but they were closer to hand than the gun. The man was hard on her heels, though, and she wasn't sure that she was going to reach the knives before he caught her. She looked around frantically for anything that might work as a weapon in a pinch. Something hanging on the wall next to the stove caught her eyes, and she reached for that.

In the background, she could hear Kameo shrieking. From outside the house there came a sound like clattering metal and smashing rocks. Was that an armor? Two armors? She couldn't tell. She would have to worry about that later.

Her hand closed on the handle of the nearest pan just as the thug grabbed hold of her pigtail and yanked her head back with a jerk that brought tears to her eyes. She cried out in pain, but that didn't stop her from yanking the pan off the hook. She whirled around to face her antagonist, brandishing her new-found weapon at him.

He laughed. "What are you going to do with THAT?" he asked, reaching for her throat to choke her again.

"If you don't let go of me this instant, you're going to find out!" He laughed again. He wasn't laughing for long.

* * *

><p>The night was peaceful again. There were no shrieking crowds of people milling about, no armor smashing into buildings. Even the wailing of fire trucks had ceased. The silence should have been reassuring, but Van wasn't the least built calmed by the quiet rustle of the wind in the trees. Instead, his anxiety mounted as he raced into Wendy's neighborhood. Here, things were a little more hectic: there were trees knocked into the roadway; houses with windows smashed; neighbors gathered on their porches to discuss the damage.<p>

"Hey, Mr. Van, what's the word?" someone called to him as he went by. Van just ignored whoever-it-was. He didn't have time to answer questions. For all he knew, it might already be too late. He rounded the corner from Sixth street to Spruce, and then he saw them: the last three tripod armors, grouped around a two-story cottage in the middle of the block . . . Wendy's house.

He reached for his hat, intending to summon Dann, until he remembered: Dann had taken a little damage in the last fight, and would probably still be healing back at his satellite. Normally, Van would have waited a couple of days to summon his armor. He wasn't sure what would happen if he summoned the armor now, without waiting for Dann to heal.

As he tried to work through the problem, it gradually dawned on him that only one of the tripods was moving. It was senselessly punching holes in the walls of the house, knocking down fence posts, and tearing up rosebushes. The other two tripods were motionless. He looked more closely, still holding on to the ring on his hat, and saw that the cockpits were open and the riders gone. So, he only had one armor to take care of. Maybe he could manage without Dann.

He let go of the ring on his hat and considered the situation carefully. The weakness of the tripods lay in how easy it was to throw them off balance if one of their legs was damaged. The thing that made them so difficult to fight with Dann was that they hung relatively low to the ground, so it was hard to reach their legs to trip them up. From the ground, though, it ought to be easier to reach the tripod's vulnerable point. It might not be so hard to take this one down, even without Dann.

Van drew his sword and approached, moving slowly and cautiously. At the back of his mind, he worried about the riders of the other two tripods: where were they? What were they doing? But there was nothing that he could do about that now. Part of him was tempted to forget about the remaining tripod and rush straight into the house to make sure that Wendy was alright, but he ignored that part. Leaving an enemy at his back would be simply asking for trouble. Besides, the tripod rider hadn't noticed him at all so far. Van had the advantage of surprise, and in this situation, it was just about the only advantage he had. With Dann unavailable, he couldn't afford to waste any of his advantages.

So he slipped through a section of loose paling in the fence, and approached the tripod from an angle, trying to keep out of the rider's range of view. He needn't have bothered: the rider was so intent on tearing the garden to shreds that he seemed completely oblivious of anything else. Van walked right under the tripod and slashed two of the legs out from under it before the rider had a clue what was going on. The tripod went down with a mighty smash; unfortunately, it took most of the front porch with it. Wendy's going to _kill_ me, Van thought. He sure hoped that she would still be around to give him a scolding for letting the armor fall in such an inconvenient place.

In the past, Van's attempts to capture tripod riders alive had tended to go badly. He had no such misfortune with this fellow, who sprang out of the cockpit alive, whole, and absolutely furious. He was also armed, and he immediately demonstrated that he believed in shooting first and asking questions later. Van spun his sword to deflect the barrage, all the while trying to get close enough to the guy to take him down. At the same time, he kept one eye on the open door to Wendy's house, wondering what was going on in there.

"Not so hot without your armor, are you, buddy?" the tripod rider taunted. Van ignored him; he had more important things to think about. He'd rather not let their fight get too close to the house, so he began back away slowly, drawing his opponent after him. He kept his eyes moving, trying to scope out the surroundings. The darkness and the wreckage had turned the familiar front yard into unknown territory.

Just to the right of Van there was a drowned tree branch. It was long and low to the ground, but part of it curved up, leaving just enough space for someone to catch a foot and stumble. Van sidestepped the branch, then feinted backwards, pretending that he had tripped. Just as he had hoped, the armor rider lunged after him, trying to take the advantage of Van's momentary clumsiness. But because he didn't bother to look before leaping, the armor rider caught his own foot on the downed branch. He'd been charging at full speed, so he was sent flying rather spectacularly. Van reached out and snatched the gun from the man's hand as he flew by. Then, before the armor rider could regain his footing, Van brought the butt of the man's gun down on the back of his head, hard. The rider collapsed.

In the past, Van might have been content to leave him like that, trusting that he was incapacitated. Even now, his first instinct was still to rush in and check on Wendy. But after having chased this gang in and out of town for weeks on end, he was more wary. He didn't want another of his adversaries to get away without giving some answers, and he certainly didn't want the rider sneaking up on him later. He took the rider's belt off and bound his hands, then knotted the fellow's shoelaces together. It was hardly a foolproof method of confinement, but hopefully he wouldn't need to leave the fellow alone for long.

Only once the armor rider was bound did Van race through the open doorway into the house. He nearly fell over the prone body of one thug, who had taken a bullet in the chest. Where was the second? And where was Wendy?

A startled cry from the kitchen answered both questions. Van looked up at the sound. Through the archway that linked the two rooms, he could see the last of the armor riders holding on to one of Wendy's braids with one hand and clutching her throat with the other, as if about to choke her. Van lunged forward, intending to slice the man in half, but he was too slow.

While he watched, Wendy brought a cast-iron skillet crashing down on the thug's head with impressive strength. He dropped like a bag of flour.

Van skidded to a halt and stared. "Huh," he said. "Guess you didn't need me after all."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Wendy said, drawing a ragged breath. She put the skillet down on the nearest counter. "I bet I could use some help cleaning things up in here."

Van opened his mouth to point out that cleaning was really not his forte, but before he could say anything, a sudden, shrill buzzing sound burst into the kitchen. "What's that?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Wendy said, looking around absently, as if she herself were not entirely sure. Then her face brightened. "Oh, it's the oven timer! Good! The cinnamon rolls must be done!"

"Sweet," Van said. "I'm kinda hungry, after all that."


	14. Chapter 14

Part Fourteen – Decisions

Wendy would have liked nothing more than to sit down and share a leisurely late-night snack with Van. But, of course, the night's work wasn't over yet. They had three captured criminals to deal with, one of whom might be bleeding to death. The sheriff was going to need to interview them, and after that—after that, somehow she was going to have to start clearing up the mess the thugs had made of her house. Aside from a broken reading lamp, her furniture was mostly unharmed, but there wasn't a single unbroken window in the living room, there was glass everywhere, and the front door needed to be replaced.

There goes my savings, Wendy thought with a sigh. Insurance would cover some of the damages, but she was going to have to meet the deductible first. And the paperwork was sure to be a pain. Just thinking about it was enough to make her want to curl up in a corner until it all went way. That wasn't an option, unfortunately.

In the end, she had time to snatch one cinnamon roll (Van somehow found enough time to eat three, all drenched with what looked like enough honey to sustain a whole beehive) and gulp down one quick cup of coffee (she had a feeling that she was going to need the caffeine before the night was over). Then she and Van worked together to bring in the three thugs. At first, Van carried the one with the gunshot wound, while Wendy marched the other two ahead of her at gunpoint.

It was rather an awkward journey, with neighbors staring, commenting, and in a few cases, cheering at the sight of the captured armor riders. A few of the more intrepid neighbors offered to accompany the prisoners to the lock-up. That was helpful, but it also meant that the procession increasingly began to look like some kind of parade. Wendy was relieved when an ambulance showed up and they were able to dispose of the injured prisoner, but she was still embarrassed to be traveling with a posse of admiring townsfolk.

It was worth it, though, to see the look on Sheriff Cooper's face when he came out of his office to see what the hubbub on the street was about. "I'll be damned," he said.

"I brought you some cinnamon rolls," Wendy told the sheriff. "And some prisoners."

"So I see," he said, looking back and forth from Wendy to Van. "I sure would like to hear what happened. 'Spose you two come inside and tell me what you've been up to?"

As Wendy had suspected, it turned out to be a long, long night. While Wendy gave a statement, a team from the sheriff's department was sent to take photographs of her house for evidence. Meanwhile, Van spent nearly an hour talking to the sheriff. Wendy fell asleep on a bench in the lobby of the sheriff's department while they talked. He had to shake her awake. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and longed for a cup of coffee.

"Want me to carry you?" Van offered.

"No, I can make it," Wendy said sleepily. She did take the arm that he offered her. They had a surreal walk through a beautiful summer night. The night wind had turned cold, and Wendy, who was still wearing the formal dress she had donned for the dance hours ago, began shivering. Without saying a word, Van took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders. To look at them, Wendy thought, they might have been any couple walking home from a late night of revelry. No one would have guessed that earlier tonight, Van had taken down an armor using just his wits and his sword, or that she had shot a man to death just a couple of hours ago.

One of the things Wendy learned just before leaving the sheriff's office was that the man she had shot had died en route to the hospital. On some level, Wendy mourned his death. She felt no guilt about shooting him: he would most likely have killed her if she had not shot first. Still, she had never killed anyone before, and some part of her could not help sorrowing over the fact that it had been necessary.

It was, therefore, a sobering walk home. Van was as silent as usual. Wendy was too overwhelmed by the events of the night to comment on the beauty of the stars above, the surprisingly cool nip in the breeze, or the relative peace that lay over the town. She noticed all of these things, and in the back of her mind, she marveled that life could go on so quietly after the tumultuous events of the night. It was strange to think that there were people sleeping peacefully in these houses who might have missed everything.

Van spoke once, as they were heading down Sixth Street. "Cooper told me that when he sent someone to talk to the mayor, they caught him trying to sneak out of his house with a briefcase full of money."

"That's awfully suspicious," Wendy said with a yawn. "I guess he really must have been in on the plan with Darlington."

"They think he might have investing in the casino under an assumed name," Van said, "but I doubt that he's going to talk freely about it."

"I'm sure they'll be able to sort it out," Wendy said confidently. "Some of those armor riders seemed awfully eager to testify against Darlington." The tripod riders had readily admitted that Darlington had hired them to make trouble in Evergreen. With their witness, there ought to be a good chance of putting Darlington away for a while, even if he did have a good lawyer. The mayor might prove trickier to convict, but, at the very least, he would have lost the confidence of his electorate. It was particularly bad timing for him, since the next election was only a few months away. "You know," Wendy added, thinking about that, "it was kind of stupid for the mayor to risk his political career over a plan as risky as this one. I mean, even if Darlington had succeeded in getting the casino approved, what guarantee would there be that it would be profitable once it was built? Most new business end up failing."

"If you ask me, the whole plan was stupid," Van said shortly. "That Darlington was a moron." Wendy couldn't disagree.

When they reached her house, Wendy saw that someone (a neighbor? someone from the sheriff's department?) had thoughtfully taped tarps over the broken windows and the splintered front door, so that her house was protected from the elements. With the front door out of commission, Van and Wendy entered the house through the side door that led into the kitchen. Wendy handed Van's jacket back to him, then went into the living room to inspect things. To her dismay, she saw half the room marked off with yellow tape. She'd hoped that the law enforcement would be done with their work here, but apparently, her home was still considered a crime scene.

Fortunately, the couch was in the part of the living room that wasn't taped off. She sank down on it and leaned her head back, closing her eyes and sighing in sheer relief at being home. Van sat down next to her and draped one arm around her. She shifted a little so that she could rest her head on his shoulder. After their cold walk home, it was comforting to feel the warmth of his body. After all the trauma of the night's attack, it was a relief to finally feel safe. "It's _good_ to be home," Wendy murmured.

"Yeah," Van agreed, yawning mightily. "Dunno about you, but I'm tired."

"Me too," Wendy agreed.

"You have to work in the morning?"

"I'm supposed to," she said, "but I'm pretty sure Jean-Jacques will give me a day or two off to deal with all of this." She waved her hand at the wreckage that was her house. That reminded her of something she had been meaning to tell Van for days. They had had so little time together lately that she hadn't been able to talk to him about it, though she had wanted to ask his opinion. "You know, the mall is probably going to open up again in a few weeks," she said, "so the Café Evergreen will be up and running again."

"So you'll go back to your old job?"

"Not necessarily. Jean-Jacques wants to keep the bistro in the community center open, too. He offered me a position as manager there."

"You mean you'd be second-in-command?"

Wendy shook her head. "No, that's not what I mean. He offered to let me manage the whole restaurant, myself. I'd be the one in charge. I'd be the one setting the menu, doing the hiring, and making all the business decisions. I could take the bistro in any direction I wanted. I would just report each quarter's accounts to him."

"Hmmm," Van said. "Sounds like more work."

"Yeah, it probably would be," Wendy admitted. "I would have an assistant manager or two, so it might not be that many more hours than I've been working lately, but it would definitely be more stress, at least at first. It would be good practice, though." She paused, realizing how seldom she and Van ever talked about any kind of long term goals. "I mean, if I ever wanted to open my own restaurant, it would be good to have more management experience under my belt," she explained.

"Well, then, you should definitely take the job."

"You think so?" Wendy asked.

"Yeah. You'd be good at it." They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Van said: "I still haven't given the sheriff an answer about whether I would work for him permanently."

"Oh?" Wendy prompted, not wanting to sound too eager to hear his answer.

"Guess I ought to let him know now," Van continued in a maddeningly vague way.

"What _is _your answer?" Wendy asked when it became clear that he wasn't going to volunteer the information.

"Huh? Well . . . I guess I'll take the job" Van said.

"You will?" Wendy breathed. She wasn't sure whether she was more surprised or more pleased.

"Truth is, I wasn't sure I could hack it," Van said, to her surprise. "I mean, I've never worked in one place for this long, not since . . . not since I was working with Elena. I wasn't sure that I could handle this kind of life. You know, living in one place . . . seeing the same people day after day . . . working under someone else's command. It's not really my thing."

"But you think you can manage it, now?" Wendy breathed. Was this what had been bothering him for the last few weeks? She had known something was troubling him, but she had assumed that it was something about their relationship. It had never occurred to her that Van might be struggling to determine whether he handle a normal life in Evergreen. If she'd known, she could have reassured him, but perhaps it was better that she had not known. She would have been willing to spend the rest of her life drifting around the world with him, if that's what it took for them to be together, but she was much happier imagining a future with him here, in her hometown.

"I figure it won't kill me, anyway," he said. "Cooper's not a bad man to work for. I think I can handle the job." He reached out and brushed Wendy's cheek lightly with one finger. "It's worth it if I get to see you," he added quietly. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" he asked.

"You _are_ staying here for my sake, aren't you?" she asked shyly.

"Well, yeah," he admitted, "I mean, where else would I find a woman who can cook as well as you can?"

"_Van_! What a terrible way to put it!"

"There you go again. You sure do yell at me a lot," he pointed out, "but I can live with that, too." He turned towards her and kissed her on the mouth before she could protest again. Wendy pulled away from the kiss in order to laugh at Van in sheer happiness. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly in return, and he pulled her closer to him. She rested her head back on his shoulder, perfectly content.

Any minute now, she intended to get up from the couch, drag herself up stairs, and go to bed. For now, though, she was too tired and too comfortable to move. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to rest here in Van's arms, and it seemed that he felt the same way. The sleepy silence stretched on, but Wendy had no desire to break it. She glanced up at once point and saw that Van had fallen asleep. Yep, that's the man of a thousand naps, she thought with an affectionate smile. And then, though she certainly hadn't been planning on it, Wendy herself drifted off to sleep, secure in the arms of her love.

* * *

><p>Author's note: This is just a head's up that the next chapter will be the last. The concluding epilogue was actually originally intended to be the second half of this chapter, but I decided the two parts would work best as separate chapters. So tune in next time to find out how our story ends! (And thank you all for reading so far.)<p> 


	15. Epilogue

Epilogue – Van and Wendy

Van woke up with a crick in his neck and Wendy in his arms. Looking down at her, he decided that it was worth a stiff neck to wake up this way, with Wendy's head still resting on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, but as he shifted a little in an attempt to get comfortable, she blinked, then sat up, looking confused.

"What time is it?" she asked, looking around.

"About dawn, I think," Van told her. The windows in the living room were all covered and sealed shut, but from where he sat, he could see morning light starting to filter in through the kitchen windows.

Wendy gasped. "We were asleep all night, then?"

"Looks like it," he told her. "Guess we'd better wake up now. The sheriff is going to want me to report in this morning, just in case there's been anything new happening." But he made no move to get up. It couldn't be much later than six A.M., and there was no real hurry. Besides, he had been putting off his courtship in order to deal with Evergreen's crisis for far too long. It was time to give Wendy some of the attention she deserved. Let the sheriff be the one to wait for once.

Wendy's thoughts seemed to have gone in a similar direction. "I hope the sheriff is properly grateful for all the work you've done for him," she said, stretching a little. The way she shifted her neck from side to side suggested that she, too, was suffering a little from having slept so awkwardly on the couch. "I mean, you did more or less save the whole town."

"You're right," he said, "I've saved Evergreen twice now, haven't I?" He thought back to that first rescue, when he had been reluctantly drawn to fight Lucky Roulette on Wendy's behalf. Wendy had been little more than a child then. Looking at her now, Van was amazed at how much she'd changed—and how much he had changed. Fond as he had grown of her during their travels, he had never dreamed that he would someday love her the way he did now. He had thought that that part of his heart was simply gone: dead from grief. He had never been so happy to be proven wrong.

"Yes, I guess you have saved the town twice," Wendy acknowledged. "What about it?" He eyed her thoughtfully, trying to decide whether he should say what he had on his mind. He had intended to wait a little longer before having this conversation. But the subject of their first meeting had come up, and when else would he get a better lead-in?

"I was just wondering when I was going to get my reward," he told her. Wendy frowned, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly.

"What reward?" she asked. "Hasn't the sheriff been paying you?"

"Uhhh, that's not what I meant," Van said, feeling increasingly nervous. He wasn't at all sure that he should be saying this, but he had already started, and it might be impossible to backtrack now. Wendy was looking up at him with puzzlement on her face, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly in thoughtfulness. She was adorable, and what he wanted most in the world was to take her in his arms and never, ever let go. That gave him the motivation to keep speaking, even though this was one of the most daunting conversations he'd ever had—even worse than his conversation with Kameo the other night. "When we first met," he said hesitantly, "you promised me something if I saved Evergreen. Don't you remember?"

Wendy's frown deepened, as she tried to figure out what he meant. Then her green eyes widened with shock as comprehension flashed across her face. She pulled away from him, moving out from under the arm that had he had draped across her shoulders. It wasn't exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for. "What do you mean?" she asked, although he was sure that by now she knew what he meant.

"You said that you would be my bride," he reminded her, speaking calmly despite his own anxiety. He was going about this the wrong way, he could tell. Why was it always so hard for him to say what he meant? "Don't you remember?"

"Of course I remember," Wendy said, with some of her customary spirit returning to her voice. "I couldn't forget a thing like that!" She stared at Van intently. "Van, are you asking me to marry you?"

"Not really," he told her. Her face fell a little. He hastened to clarify: "I mean, YOU'RE the one who said that you would marry me. I'm just asking if the offer still stands."

She smiled up at him. "Idiot," she said, somehow making it sound more like an endearment than an insult. "Don't you know how long I've loved you? Don't you know how long I've hoped that you would change your answer?"

"Then you _will_ marry me?" he pushed, wanting to hear her acceptance in the clearest words possible. He was almost afraid to believe that he could be so blessed.

"Of course I will," she said.

"Sweet!" he said. He bent his head down to kiss her. At first he merely brushed his lips against hers, wanting to remember that first, tentative kiss of theirs, but she drew closer to him, as if wanting more, so he returned to kiss her again and again, ending in one long kiss that threatened to take his breathe away. _Damn_, that was good, he thought. When he reluctantly drew back, it was to ask: "Do you think we'll be able to find a justice of the peace at the courthouse today?"

"Not today," Wendy told him. "Monday, maybe. Why?"

"I was just wondering how soon we could get married," he explained. This time Wendy nearly jumped with surprise, her eyes widening again.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"What do you mean, what am I talking about? You just said that you would marry me!"

"I know I did, but I didn't mean today!"

"Monday, then?"

"But, Van. . . " Wendy began to protest.

"What's wrong with that?" he asked, dismayed. He couldn't wait to be Wendy's husband, and he felt a little hurt that she didn't feel the same way. "You do WANT to be married to me, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but we can't just get married on the spur of the moment like that!"

Ah, so maybe she thought this was something that only just now occurred to him. "It's not like that," he reassured her. "I've been thinking about this for months!" Pretty much since the day he came back to Evergreen, though he didn't see any need to tell her that. Admittedly, at that point it had only been a sudden, unexpected hope, rather than a definite plan.

"Well, this is the first I've heard of it!"

"Come on," he said. "Didn't the thought that we might get married ever once cross your mind this summer?" Though they hadn't really spoken about things, he had_ thought_ that they were on the same page about where their courtship was headed. Had he been wrong?

"Of course it crossed my mind," she replied. "If you want to know the truth, I've been looking at wedding dress patterns for _weeks_! But it never occurred to me that you would expect me to marry you at the drop of a hat. These things take time, Van." She frowned at him.

"Why?" he asked bluntly. "All we have to do is go to the justice of the peace, say a few vows, sign a paper, and we're done, right?" Her glare did not abate one bit. In fact, if anything, the frown on her face deepened.

"Is that really how you want to do it? Don't you want to celebrate? Don't you want our friends to be there when we get married?" she asked.

"What friends?" Van asked, honestly puzzled. He might like to invite Sheriff Cooper to serve as one of the witnesses, but there was no need to wait for that. He had no objection to Wendy inviting some of her coworkers, either, as long as he wasn't expected to make polite chit chat with them for very long.

"You know . . . Joshua and Yukiko, for instance. Wouldn't it be nice to see them again? They might even bring their baby!"

"No," he said flatly, remembering how annoying Joshua had been. Maybe he'd grown out of his annoyingness—but then again, maybe he hadn't. Van didn't really want to find out. Besides, he was sure that any child that Joshua had fathered would be just as obnoxious as he had been.

"What about the old timers from Gloria?"

"Trust me, you don't want them at our wedding," Van said. He was even more certain about this. "They would just get drunk at the reception and humiliate themselves somehow."

"What about Carmen . . . and Pricilla?" Wendy said the last of the names so tentatively that he wondered if she had somehow known about Pricilla's crush on him. But how could she know that? He had never mentioned it. He certainly never intended to mention it, if he could help it.

"I don't think that either of them would appreciate an invitation to _our _wedding," Van said. Maybe Carmen wouldn't have minded. She had a level head on her shoulders. Pricilla, on the other hand . . . he couldn't trust her not to make a scene. A couple of years ago, he had finally given Pricilla his answer to her question, and she had not taken it very well.

"Look, can't we just keep things simple?" Van suggested. "I don't want to make a big production out of this. I just . . . " He paused, finding it hard to say these kinds of things to her, even as close as they had grown. "I just want to have you as my wife." He couldn't prevent his voice from breaking a little on the last word. There was nothing which mattered more to him than this. Nothing.

Wendy sighed. She reached up to stroke his cheek. "Look, love," she said, a little more gently, "Even if I wanted a simple wedding, without the cake and the dress and the flowers—even if I were willing to give all that up—there would be still be a lot of other things we would need to work out first. There's a reason for having a period of just being engaged, isn't there? We can't just plunge straight into married life."

"Why not? It's not like our lives are going to change much. I mean, I practically live here anyway."

"Some things would change," Wendy muttered. She blushed and looked away as she added: "Like our sleeping arrangements."

Well, yeah, Van thought. That was kind of the point! He was looking forward to not having to part from her at night. Wasn't she looking forward to that, too? He opened his mouth to ask that, then paused. How could he possibly ask her about that? She was already embarrassed enough; there was no need to make her blush more.

That was when it first began to dawn on him that maybe Wendy had a point. Maybe there _were _things that they would have to work out before they were married. If she was uncomfortable merely _talking_ about sharing a bed with him, how was she going to handle the adjustment to married life? Maybe they did need more time. There were, after all, some things too important to rush.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. "I guess if you want, we can wait" —he stopped here, wondering just how long of an engagement she might have been expecting—"a couple of months?" he suggested.

"What about a New Year's Day wedding?" she said, still looking away. He sighed. That was more than a couple of months away.

"Can we split the difference and say mid-November?" he offered. She turned her face back to him, looked up at him for a moment. Then she nodded. He relaxed a little, relieved to have that settled, even if November seemed a long time away.

"I guess that would give me enough time to plan. I wouldn't have much time to save, though,"

"Save? Save what?"

"Money, silly," she said, smiling a little at him. He was glad to see her smiling again, but he was still confused.

"Money for what?"

"The wedding! They do cost money, you know. Even if you do without invitations and favors and decorations, there's still the dress itself, and you have to feed your guests—"

"Wait a minute," he said. Not this again! "I thought we were going to keep things simple!"

"But there's no reason to do that if we've got time to plan," Wendy said, "and besides, people expect certain things form a wedding. You can't not have a bridal bouquet or cake, you know."

"Who cares what people expect!" He threw his hands up in the air in despair. Wendy gave him a skeptical look. She opened her mouth, no doubt intending to protest, but he cut her off, having suddenly had what was, for him, a stroke of genius. "Look, why don't we just elope?"

"Elope? I don't know, Van—"

"It's perfect," he insisted. "We can just find a wedding chapel somewhere where they'll handle all the details, so you won't have to worry about all that" (and he wouldn't have to think about it at all) "and we can just take a week or two off work to get married, do a little honeymooning—" he gave her a sideways glance as he said this, but this time, she didn't blush, so he continued: "and it'll all be as easy as taking a vacation." He had never really cared for vacations, but he was pretty sure that this would be different.

To his surprise, she didn't completely dismiss the idea. "Well, maybe," she said slowly. She looked down thoughtfully, idly playing with her necklace with one hand. Then she looked up at him and smiled. "I know! We could go to Harbor Parade!"

"Where?"

"You know, that port town we stopped in when we tracking the Claw," she explained. "The one where we met Bunny and Klatt."

"Who?" he asked, still feeling lost. Then he realized what she was talking about. "You mean those two idiots who tried to steal Dann?" He remembered _them_, all right. He had ended up rescuing them from the mafia just to keep Wendy from mourning over their deaths. He still wasn't sure that they had deserved such a rescue. They had been some of the most irritating opponents he'd ever faced.

"That's right! There was a wedding chapel there, remember? And it's a beautiful town. The ocean is wonderful, and I bet it would be nice even in winter—"

"Oh, hell no!" Van exploded. "That was a terrible town! How can you possibly want to get married there? And that wedding chapel was the kitschiest thing ever." The clergyman there had been a creep, too.

"Do you have a better idea?" Wendy snapped at him. "Because if so, I'd like to hear it."

"I still think we should go down to the courthouse and get married by the justice of the peace," Van muttered.

"Oh you do, do you?"

"Well, you asked what I thought," Van said, raising his voice a little in response to hers. "Why did you bother to ask what I wanted if you already knew you weren't going to do it?"

"I thought that you were going to be reasonable," Wendy retorted. Then she muttered: "I don't know why I thought that. I should know better by now."

Kameo, who had been resting in the open doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, was awoken by the rising volume of this argument. He blinked sleepily, yawned a little, and watched the two people who made up his family bicker with each other. He briefly considered whether he should intervene: he didn't like to see his people unhappy. But, he decided, they would need to work this out themselves.

Besides, as far as Kameo was concerned, the result of the argument was pretty much a foregone conclusion. As much as Van might bluster, snarl, or sulk, most of his arguments with Wendy ended the same way: Wendy usually got what she wanted in the end. Kameo was willing to bet that this argument would be no different than all the others. He yawned again, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

THE END.

* * *

><p>Author's note: That's a wrap, folks! It was hard to figure out just where to end this, but I thought it would be nice to give Kameo the last word (so to speak). Thanks for reading, and thanks for all the reviews. I hope you enjoyed the story; I had a blast writing it.<p>

It's possible that I'll be doing some more _Gun X Sword_ fic in the future, as I do have more ideas, but I don't know if or when that will be, so I'm not making any promises. In the meantime, if anyone wants to discuss the original series, why not hop over to the discussion forums? It'd be nice to get some conversation going with _Gun X Sword_ fans.


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